All the Help I Have to Give
by LauraHuntORI
Summary: As the Dowager would say, relationships are a long business.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Our story commences near the beginning of Season 1, U.K. episode 4, immediately after Branson has walked out of the library, leaving Mr. Carson and Lord Grantham alone together.

_"…what happens within is much bigger than what comes out in words." – Rabindranath Tagore. _

_"I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy." – also Rabindranath Tagore_

_"From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs." – Karl Marx (not to speak of Louis Blanc). _

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

"He seems a bright spark—" Branson heard his new employer say before the heavy wooden library door had closed behind him, cutting off all sound from the huge, wonderful, book-filled room. Downton Abbey's new chauffeur was grinning so broadly he thought his face would crack in half. _'Greatest. Job. __**Ever**__. Your lordship, I think I love you. You had me at "You're very welcome to borrow books, if you wish."'_

* * *

"You asked to see the new chauffeur, my lady," Old Lady Grantham's butler reminded her, by way of introduction. The old woman thanked the man, and he left the two of them alone together, just as Mr. Carson had done with Lord Grantham at the big house. Branson looked around her ladyship's study, being careful not to move more than his eyes, while her ladyship took a last look at the letter she'd been reading when he and the butler came in. Finally, she laid the letter down on her desk and looked the chauffeur over.

"Your name is Branson, I'm told," she greeted him.

"That's right, your ladyship."

She glanced back momentarily at the letter on her desk. "I have a letter here from Mrs. Delderfield," she informed him.

Branson nodded his understanding. It must be the letter of reference his former employer had given him.

Oddly, the old woman seemed surprised. Her forehead creased. "Do you know what this letter says?" she asked him.

_'What kind of fool gives a prospective employer a reference letter he's not read?' _Branson wondered, but, "Of course, milady," was all he replied aloud.

The crease between the aged brows deepened momentarily, then smoothed itself out as much as it could on her liberally wrinkled visage. Her eyebrows rose inquiringly instead. "And do you _agree _with her description of you?"

_'And here's the trap,' _Branson thought. He sighed, _'I guess no job can be perfect.' _If he agreed, she would think him conceited, yet if he denied it… "Yes, milady, I agree with it, and I'll do my best to live—"

"You **_agree _**you're like a spaniel?" the dowager interrupted, incredulous.

"Wha-?!" His letter of reference had NOT said _that. _

The dowager picked up the letter and read, _"'He's like a friendly little cocker spaniel, and I think it would be a great pity for his cheerful high spirits to be crushed by too rough handling.'"_ She paused to see if he had any response, but finding the chauffeur speechless, she continued, _"'Of course, he chatters like a magpie when one is alone in the car, so if you really can't stand a talkative servant, you'd better tell Robert not to hire him, but on the other hand, whenever you need a little peace you can always tell him to hush. He won't be offended, and you can start him prattling again whenever you want by asking him a question.'"_

Violet looked up at the young man to gauge his reaction. He was naturally light-skinned, so his embarrassment had stained his cheeks more brightly than cochineal could have done, but yet… it seemed an amused embarrassment more than a painful one. The boy had been looking straight ahead with really an admirable dignity the dowager thought… considering. "Do you still say you agree with her, Branson?" she queried softly.

Branson lowered his gaze to meet the old woman's, while in his head he heard his grandfather's voice saying, _'This is my best dog...' _The Dowager Countess of Grantham had kind eyes, Branson thought. He realized suddenly that the way he answered her was going to dictate how she treated him. He sent a brief prayer to St. Notburga to guide him. He moistened his lips. "I agree it would be a pity for my 'cheerful high spirits to be crushed by too rough handling,'" he temporized, looking for her reaction. Not good enough: she was still waiting for enlightenment. He smiled ruefully. "And I agree I won't be offended when you tell me to hush."

The dowager laughed. "Then we'll get on splendidly," she said. She made arrangements for him to take her to Ripon early the following afternoon and dismissed him. When the chauffeur had gone, she picked up the letter again. _'Be kind to him, Violet. He's a sweet boy, and I'd like to see him well placed, but at this point, I'm afraid all the help I have to give him is to send him to you.'_ Violet looked thoughtfully at the door through which the boy had departed before putting the letter away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Edited to correct the opening dialogue. Sorry about that. Guess I don't have the whole thing memorized at that.

**Disclaimer: ** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

"What I don't understand in all this is you. You seem positively _glad_ to see Mary disinherited."

"You speak as if we had a choice," his lordship told his mother.

She ignored him. "Thank you, Branson," she said instead.

Branson heard the noise of Mr. Carson shutting the car door. He put the car in gear, and they headed out. The chauffeur suspected old Lady Grantham would be in no mood to talk on the way home. Maybe it was just as well. He frowned thoughtfully. _Had he been taking advant—_

"Did you go to the fair, Branson?"

Well, he was wrong. "Yes, milady. I took her ladyship and two of the young ladies this afternoon."

"Did they let you off the leash at all so you could enjoy yourself?"

Branson smiled at the road in front of him. _Off the leash, indeed! _"Yes, milady, I had some time to wander around."

"How was it?"

"Still quiet when we were there; it was pretty early."

"Do you think you'll go back after you drop me off?"

Branson wanted badly to ask the old lady if she'd like to go, but didn't dare. "I don't think so, milady."

There was a short silence from the passenger seat. Then, "What happened?"

"Nothing, milady." _Really. It was nothing. He hoped. He had liked eating with them in the servants' hall. It would be lonely to always have __to—_

"Are you a fan of the paradox?" The aged voice cut into his thoughts sarcastically. "How could something be nothing?"

"This was, milady," he told her emphatically.

"Branson, do you know what happens to servants who lie to their employers?"

Now _he_ was silent for a moment. Then, "No, milady."

"Would you like to find out?"

_Oh, God, on his **second **day? _"Really, milady—"

"Branson, I'll be frank. My own problems are not amusing me right now; I'm hoping yours will. So tell me what's wrong."

Branson took a breath. "If you must know, someone accused me of taking advantage of the housekeeper's absence."

_That _surprised her.

"But I think she only said that because she was angry that she hadn't been able to go to the fair."

"If you think that's the only reason, why are you upset?"

"I'm not."

"Branson." Just that, just his name, but clearly indicating she didn't believe him, and didn't want to warn him again.

He sighed. "I'm afraid she might be right."

"_How_ were you taking advantage?"

"By eating in the servants' hall."

"Aren't meals part of your wages?"

"Yes, but she said Mr. Taylor always ate in the chauffeur's cottage."

"Mr. Taylor was an aspiring cook." Old Lady Grantham thought a moment. "Are you being paid a board wage or drawing stores?"

"Drawing stores."

"Who do you draw the stores from?"

"Mrs. Hughes."

"Ah, the housekeeper. Good. So just ask her."

"What?"

"Ask her if you took advantage."

Branson laughed. _Simple._ "I will. Thank you, milady."

"If only I could solve my own problems so easily."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **_"The most fruitful and natural exercise for our minds is, in my opinion, conversation."_ ― Michel de Montaigne, _The Essays: A Selection_

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

"Milady, can I ask you a question?"

Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham, raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Considering the enormous number of questions you have addressed to me already in your short period of employment, I would judge you fully competent in the posing of queries, yes."

She couldn't see his rising blush, since he was facing the road, but she could hear it in his voice. "Yes, well, I was just wondering, milady… "

"Hesitation from you, Branson? How shocking."

"I've been reading John Stuart Mill's essay **_On the Subjection of Women_**."

"Oh, yes?"

"And I wondered what you thought of it."

"Me? What have I got to do with it?"

"Your name is on the bookplate of the copy I'm reading, milady." He waited, but she didn't reply. "Did you ever read it, your ladyship?"

"I suppose you want me to say I agree with it," she huffed, disgruntled.

"Don't you?"

"Most of the things he talked about have been changed."

"Not all, though."

"The important ones."

"How do you figure, milady? Woman still can't vote—"

"Why would a woman need to vote?"

"To make certain her wishes are considered, and her rights protected?"

"A woman's husband protects her rights."

"Even when they conflict with his own?"

"They don't."

"Sometimes they do, milady. And what about the entailing of prop—"

"Hush, Branson!"

He hushed obediently, but he wondered if she chose to silence him because she disagreed with Mill's essay, or because she agreed with it.

* * *

Cora Crawley, current Countess of Grantham, had to admit it seemed a little odd to be quite so eager to converse with a servant. At least, she always spoke with O'Brien, but this was different. O'Brien spoke of clothes, or hair, or household gossip. Branson… spoke about… other things.

The first time Cora had been driven somewhere alone by the young man, he had asked her about America, and, once started, she had found the topic impossible to resist. It was such a relief to talk to someone who didn't automatically think England and English customs superior to those of herself and her homeland. Branson gave her the impression that he approved of her, and of her country, and this was in itself such a novelty, she found herself answering his gentle queries instead of crushing him with accusations of impertinence… after all, he was always perfectly polite, and even if he was the chauffeur, the two of them were ultimately 'created equal' weren't they, just as the Declaration of Independence proclaimed? So what harm could there be in just talking to him?

* * *

"For _our_ lot, it's _de rigueur_." Lady Mary stated definitively.

"So posh people all have to do the same thing?" the chauffeur asked.

His passenger considered. "Yes, I suppose you could put it like that… if they didn't all stand on the 'port side out' how would you _know _they were posh?"

Branson laughed. "Point taken, milady." He considered a moment. "But what if posh people _wanted _to do something else?"

"Depending on what it was they wanted to do, it might mean they wouldn't be 'posh' any more."

"So being posh has restrictions, as well as privileges?"

"Doesn't every social class?"

* * *

"I'm sorry, your lordship, but I don't agree."

"So you're against me?"

"Of course not, milord. My _opinion_ differs from yours, that's all. And how can you be certain that your opinion is correct, if you never allow it to be tested freely against the opinions of others?"

"Is that Mill I hear being paraphrased at me?"

"John Stuart Mill, yes, milord. **_On Liberty_**. Wonderful book, milord. And if you're unhappy about my quoting it, blame yourself: you're the one who loaned it to me."

"Oh, hush. Blame myself indeed."

The chauffeur was suddenly very busy with his driving. Lord Grantham waited, but the boy said nothing else. His lordship looked out the window, but saw nothing about this stretch of road to require such rapt attention. There was no sound but that of the running motor and the wheels on the road for minutes on end.

"Branson?"

"Yes, milord?"

"What's wrong with you?"

Branson was uncertain how to answer. "I'm not sure what you mean, milord."

"Don't tell me you've nothing else to say? We're still miles from home."

_Had he misheard? _"You told me to hush, milord."

"Is that all it takes?" Lord Grantham's voice blended surprise, pleasure, and amusement. _But old Lady Grantham had __**told**__ him, hadn't she? _"I'll be sure to keep it in mind the next time I'm losing an argument to you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **The 'flashback' occurs on Friday, May 30, 1913 after Sybil has left Madame Swann's shop. The framing sequence occurs a week later.

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Branson couldn't explain it, except that it appeared he wanted to get fired. He could think of no other plausible explanation for his current behavior. Strange, because this was undoubtedly the best job he'd ever had. He was an idiot to risk it for such a frivolous reason. His only excuse was that he couldn't help himself.

_"Well, milady?" the chauffeur had asked. _

_Despite the fact that she and the young man had conversed the entire nine miles between Downton Village and Ripon, it still surprised her that he should address her out of the blue in this way. It could __**not **__be appropriate. Lady Sybil had already had more words out of Branson than she'd had from Taylor in all the years the previous chauffeur had worked for the family. This new man would wear out his voicebox if he wasn't careful. _

_Should she warn him that he was talking too much? Surely he shouldn't be running on like an old family retainer when he had only started three days ago? She could 'freeze him out' she supposed, but that would be so rude, so cruel. She stared at the back of the brown head, undecided. _

_"Milady?" _

_He was certainly sure of himself. _

_"Well, what?" She had made her tone as gruff as possible, which admittedly was not all that gruff. _

_"Did you find a dress that will be 'new and exciting'?" _

_Oh. Yes! Enthusiasm caught her, and the proprieties were left in the dust of the road behind them. "I did! It's the most darling thing!" _

_"What's it like?" _

_Lady Sybil did not ask herself why a man and a chauffeur would care what her new frock was like; she just wanted to talk about it. "It's all shades of blue—"_

_Branson had a sudden vision of the dusky-hued Lady Sybil in a dress of St. Patrick's blue like a bride. He smiled, knowing it was safe, because she was behind him and could not see his face. His imagination crowned his young employer with a wreath of wildflowers: he knew just the ones he'd use to make it…_

_"—with an overlay of gold lace on the bodice, and capped cuffs on the… " she paused dramatically, "… balloon trousers." She laughed with delight, thinking to surprise him. _

_She had surprised him, but not in the way she'd thought. "Planning to take a turn as Scheherazade then, milady?" _

_"You've heard of Léon_ _Bakst, have you?" she had asked, surprised in her turn. _

_"We don't live in caves in the Second City, milady. Street models were turning Sackville Street into an annex of the Ballets Russes with the designs of Bakst and Diaghilev these two years gone." _

_Lady Sybil studied what she could see of his self-satisfied smile in the side mirror. "So I'm behind the times, am I, when I thought I was in the van?" _

_"I wouldn't say that, milady." There was a short pause. Greatly daring, he assayed, "If you're to be the lady of the thousand and one nights, milady, perhaps you'd tell me a story?" _

_He was impertinent. And he'd just given Lady Sybil the perfect opening to give him a setdown: "Very well," she agreed magnanimously. "Once upon a time, there was a princess—" _

_"A _beautiful_ princess," he amended. _

_She ignored him, continuing instead, "—whose magic carpet had an extremely forward and talkative chauffeur." _

_Branson sank down comically on the driver's bench. Lady Sybil smiled her amusement at his antics, but nevertheless kept on with her story in the sternest tones she could muster: "And when the princess found she couldn't stand his chatter even one minute more—" _

_"—she told him to 'hush', and he hushed," the chauffeur finished for her, chagrined and quite earnest in his desire to remain in ignorance of the penalty the lady herself thought to impose. _

_Lady Sybil thought about what the young man had said. "Does he __**always **__hush when he's told to?" she asked, just to make sure. _

_"He must, milady… He's under an enchantment." _

_"And how would one go about getting this enchanted chauffeur to speak again once he's been hushed?" _

_Well, that was a hopeful sign. _

_"Should such a thing ever be desirable," the lady temporized, cautiously. _

_Maybe not that hopeful, then. "One asks him a question, or invites him to speak, milady." _

_Lady Sybil pondered this information. "Good to know," she said. _

Branson had been dispatched to pick up Lady Sybil's 'new and exciting' costume that morning in Ripon, and she had told him last week that if it was ready today she would wear it at dinner tonight. The lady hoped and expected to create a sensation in the drawing room.

A good chauffeur familiarizes himself with the lay of the land. He knew just where the drawing room was, and which window would give him the best view of anyone entering from the Great Hall. His mother would call him a fool for putting this knowledge to use.

This was such a bad idea. He was going to get caught. He couldn't stop himself, however; he _had _to see it. Hang the consequences.

As things fell out, he did not get caught. But if he had, he thought it might well have been worth it. Without a doubt, this was a job in a million.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **_"But the universal law of the matter is that, assuming any given quantity of energy and sense in master and servant, the greatest material result obtainable by them will be, not through antagonism to each other, but through affection for each other." _ -John Ruskin, **_Unto This Last: _**Essay I: The Roots of Honour.

**Disclaimer:** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

_Da and Grandda had not gotten on, but after Da died, Grandda wrote to Mam asking if she'd be willing to send one of his grandsons for a visit to the farm. At twelve, Tom could travel by himself, yet his wages when not in school were still small enough to be spared, so Mam decided he should be the one to go. _

_Mam kissed him as she put him on the train, and revealed that she had a second reason for choosing him: "You're the one who's most like your Da, if it's a reconciliation he's seeking." _

_Tom was excited by the trip, but also nervous. Da had talked about his father sometimes, told Tom the old man was stricter even than Mam. Tom's initial worry that he would run afoul of the old man proved to be well-founded. After the first painful (for Tom) encounter between grandfather and grandson on the subject of whether the latter's 'city ways' would be tolerated at the farm (they wouldn't be), Tom asked, not without a great deal of trepidation, for the old man's help. _

_Grandda responded by taking the boy to the kennels: the old man raised not only blackfaced sheep, but sheepdogs as well. _

_At the kennel Grandda whistled, and one of the sheepdogs immediately trotted up to them. The dog's tail did not wag, but her coat gleamed with health, and her bright eyes looked attentively at her master to see what he wanted of her. _

_"This is my best dog," Grandda told Tom. "She's not the smartest dog, and she's not the fastest dog, but she is the __**most obedient**__." _

_Tom regarded the dog in silence for several moments, his heart hammering. He closed his eyes briefly in a silent and wordless prayer for strength. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and looked up at his grandfather, his eyes trained as solemnly on the old man's face as the dog's were. "And you'd like me to be your 'best grandson.'" It was not a question. _

_"I would," Grandda agreed. _

_Tom looked down again, both in submission and to study the dog. She glanced at him briefly, but her chief focus stayed on her master. Tom licked his lips, feeling his way. "When you first started to train her," the boy said at last, "she must have needed a lot of help to be able to tell what you wanted, and what you __**didn't **__ want…" his voice trailed off. He was still looking down. _

_The old man touched the boy's shoulder, so gently that although Tom was still sore from their earlier 'encounter' the touch gave him no additional hurt. Tom looked up at his grandfather, in an agony of hope. _

_"Tom," Grandda promised quietly, "You'll have all the help I have to give."_

* * *

_He's not the smartest dog... _

When Violet entered the library in search of her son, the first thing she noticed was that the bookcase-fronted 'hidden' servant's door was open. She looked around. The room looked empty, but the open door said it wasn't, and the place was too large for her to be sure. "Who's in here?" she called out to the room at large.

"It's me, your ladyship," an Irish voice replied quietly, apparently from quite close by.

Violet looked around. He was _nowhere_.

"Branson?" Her voice was not loud either.

"I'm here, milady." There was a sound like amusement in the soft tones. "Between the fireplace and the door."

Violet moved two steps and she could see him. He was seated on the floor, and the tall arm of the nearer red velvet settee had hidden him from sight behind her when she came in from the hall. Two books lay on the floor in front of him. A third was open in his right hand, from which he must have been reading. His left hand lay gently on Pharoah's neck. The dog was asleep, his head resting on Branson's thigh, effectively pinning the chauffeur in place.

"Forgive me for not rising, your ladyship," Branson said, still quietly, "but I've heard it's best to let sleeping dogs lie."

It ought to have seemed strange to the find him here like this, Violet thought, but it did not. On the contrary, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. So much so, that she did not ask either herself or him what his business was in the room. His business, in any event, was obvious.

"More Mill?" she guessed, gesturing with the tip of her cane towards the book in his hand.

He smiled. "No, milady. Ruskin. There's a copy of **_Sesame and Lilies_** here that—"

"Mama," Lord Grantham's voice interrupted them, "they said you were in—" he stopped abruptly, seeing the chauffeur.

The advent of his employer apparently caused Branson to experience an abrupt change of heart on the subject of the best way to handle _sleeping dogs_ for he bent down to kiss Pharoah's head, murmuring something to the animal at the same time, the content of which caused the dowager's eyebrows to rise.

The dog rose languidly and walked over at a sedate pace to join Lord Grantham, freeing the chauffeur to scoop up the two books at his feet and reshelve them. The book he'd been reading he closed and took with him. He had rounded the settee on the opposite side from Lord and old Lady Grantham and was almost to the bookcase-fronted 'hidden' door when Lord Grantham's voice arrested him: "Is that book signed out?"

Branson turned back to say, "Yes, your lordship."

"Fine. Go."

When the door had closed behind him, Violet said, "Rather an odd remark for a 'revolutionary socialist'."

"'Yes, your lordship'?" her son asked, perplexed. "Perfectly ordinary thing to say."

"No, what he said to the dog."

"What did he say?"

She made a sound to signify that she was not amused by his pretended (as she thought it) ignorance. "I didn't come here to stroke your ego, Robert."

"How could it stroke my ego?"

"You really didn't hear him?"

"No, what did he say?"

"He said, 'Arise, Great King. Our master's here.'"


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **This chapter begins the night of the counting of the votes for the by-election in Ripon (near the end of Season 1, U.K. episode 6, shortly before events depicted in my Matthew/Branson story **_You'll Let Me Know How She Gets On_**).

If anyone is wondering about Lady Edith's absence from this story thus far, it is due to the fact that her interactions with Branson from Season 1, episode 5 through Season 2, episode 1 are chronicled in my Edith/Branson friendship story **_Ready for the Road_**.

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Branson's chief emotion was confusion. Lady Sybil had regained consciousness, and was able to walk (with assistance) from Crawley House to the car, and from the car into the big house. Lady Mary said she did not believe Lady Sybil had been seriously hurt. That was what counted, Branson reminded himself. Not himself. Not his job. If the price for Lady Sybil's being all right… was that _he_ had to leave… then he would leave, _and be grateful. _

Miss O'Brien, bless her black heart, made sure Branson was informed of each and every threat Lord Grantham made against him. Branson didn't answer her, just fingered his chaplet under the table, while he waited to be told either that he was needed to drive Mr. Crawley home or that he would never be needed for anything ever again.

Once Mrs. Patmore had sent up the sandwiches for Mr. Crawley, she brought a sandwich and a cup of tea into the servants' hall for Mr. Branson. Had she asked him if he wanted it, or if he were hungry, the chauffeur would have said 'no,' but since she merely set down the plate and cup and ordered him to eat and drink, he obeyed. The sandwich was filled with the liver paté which was the chauffeur's favorite. He felt obscurely guilty that anything should taste so delicious at such a moment, and when he finished it, he felt even guiltier because he wished he had another.

Conjured apparently by his desire, the cook returned to the servants' hall with a second plate, set it between them on the table, then pushed it an inch or two towards him. It was a second sandwich. "Still hungry, Mr. Branson?"

He nodded, dumbfounded, and picking it up, began to eat again.

"Lady Sybil says you didn't know anything about it until you arrived there. Is that true?"

The chauffeur nodded, a weird lightness expanding his chest. Lady Sybil had _defended him? _Miss O'Brien hadn't told him that. It was worth it, it was_ all_ worth it, as long as she was all right. "Thank you, Mrs. Patmore." The cook patted his hand, where it lay on the table, then went back to the kitchen.

* * *

Lord Grantham never sent for him. He received no messages of any kind except for Lady Mary's verbal message on Friday night via Mr. Crawley. On Saturday afternoon, Branson drove to the Dower House as scheduled to pick up old Lady Grantham for her regular 'short' round of charity visits, just as though nothing had happened. He collected the three prepared wicker charity baskets from Mrs. Jamison, the Dowager's cook/housekeeper, then came around to pick up the Dowager herself.

As he handed her into the motor, old Lady Grantham asked, "Were you hurt?"

"No, your ladyship," Branson replied.

"Has Lord Grantham said anything to you?"

"No, milady, not a word."

She patted his arm sympathetically and got into the car.

Old Lady Grantham's spies had of course fully informed her of all that had occurred, so she required no explanation from the chauffeur, but as they drove and she listened to his silence, she wondered if perhaps he needed something from her.

"Branson, it wasn't your fault," the Dowager Countess of Grantham told him.

If he heard what she had said, he gave no visible sign, and if he sighed, she failed to hear it over the sound of the motor.

* * *

Branson uneasily concluded after the passage of several days with no word from his lordship, that Lady Mary must have been correct in her supposition that he, as well as Lady Sybil, was "all right." But he was still bothered by the incident, so he did what he always did when oppressed by crises of conscience: he went to confession.

Father James was the strictest confessor Branson had ever encountered: he thought nothing of routinely assigning Tom penances which took several days to perform, including (on one memorable occasion) a full novena coupled with a nine days' fast.

The chauffeur's confession on the subject of having taken Lady Sybil to the count, however, merely irritated the middle-aged priest: "Let me see if I've got this straight," he growled through the grille, "you're 'confessing' that your employer's daughter disobeyed her father and lied to you in order to trick you into taking her someplace dangerous, and that you're grateful she wasn't badly hurt, and relieved you haven't been sacked, but you feel guilty about it all the same? If you want me to assign a penance for _that_, you'll have to convince _the girl_ to come in here and confess it, because if being a trusting, gullible fool is going to be considered a sin now, I'm going to have to rethink my entire penance structure."

From the penitent's side of the grille, Branson blinked. "Thank you, Father. 'Thou hast comforted me most marvelous much.'"

* * *

On the day set aside for the Dowager's 'long' round of charity visits, old Lady Grantham noticed that the chauffeur's mood seemed appreciably lighter. "Has his lordship finally spoken to you then?"

The chauffeur nodded. "Yes, milady, he has."

"What did he say?"

"He said, 'You can take off the hair shirt now, Branson. You're not the only one she lied to.'"


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **"The first duty of love is to listen." -Paul Tillich

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

When the Crawley sisters had still been denizens of the nursery, Lady Mary had read to her rapt younger sisters a story in which a little girl's dolls had magically come to life whenever the people were out of the room.

Branson's 'enchantment' was like that, Lady Sybil often thought, with the exception that he only 'froze' into professional impassivity when at least_ two_ people were present. Like now, for instance.

Mama was accompanying Sybil to Madame Swann's for what was expected to be the final visit before the family left for the London Season. Probably, Mama would have come with her today in any case, but Sybil could not shake the feeling that her mother's presence was part of her 'reward' for having defied Papa's orders and gone to the count in Ripon.

Thank goodness she and Mary had succeeded in convincing Papa not to punish Branson for her actions. Lady Sybil wondered if the chauffeur knew how close she had come to getting him sacked. She hoped not. He'd given her no sign either way, but then again, she'd barely seen him since then, and never alone. Today, with Mama present, he was like the dolls in the nursery story: stiff, inanimate, totally unlike the cheerfully mischievous chauffeur who drove when she was alone in the car.

_That spring, Lady Sybil's conversations with the chauffeur had focused chiefly on three things: Gwen Dawson's continuing search for work (into which Branson had been conscripted by the two girls as a driver/helper in the hope that his assistance might keep them out of the mud), politics (in the forms of Women's Suffrage and the now-infamous by-election), and Lady Sybil's upcoming First Season. _

_Branson had asked his young employer to explain the purpose of a London Season. The question took her a little aback, as the Season was an institution in her world. Lady Sybil did her best to explain about being presented at Court, the need for elaborate finery (indeed, trips to and from the dressmaker were the principal venue for their conversations), and the balls and dinners where a young lady would be shown off to advantage in the hope that she would 'be a success' and make an advantageous match. _

_"So you're like a heifer being shown at a fair?" the chauffeur had asked. He was facing forward, so did not see his young employer's frown, and while she was attempting to formulate a suitably cutting reply, he had continued to speak. To stop him, she had snapped out the order to hush before her brain had interpreted his final sentence: "I'm sure you'll win a blue ribbon." _

A heifer at a fair, indeed! Yet… the analogy was not entirely inapt. There should be another way, a fairer way, for men and women to get together. But young men and young women could not fall in love if they never met, so unless she wished to marry Larry Grey (which she didn't, though his obvious, if somewhat unreasonably possessive admiration had been undeniably flattering), a Season was needed, if only as an expression of a woman's right to meet young men.

Lady Sybil glanced at her mother, irritated that the older woman's presence in the vehicle kept her from speaking her thoughts aloud to the chauffeur. She wondered if the concept of meeting men as a 'woman's right' would shock him. She wondered how _he _would contrive to find a bride when the time came, and was vexed that she was unable (at the present moment anyway) to ask him.

* * *

At long last, Branson had achieved nirvana. And it had taken only a year. And his 'union' was not with the Brahman, but with the kitchen staff, and would last only one evening.

"Are you dining with us after all, Mr. Branson?" the butler asked, upon seeing the chauffeur wander into the servants' hall. "I thought Mrs. Hughes said you weren't."

"I'm not, Mr. Carson, I'm just waiting for—"

"Come along then, Mr. Branson," Mrs. Patmore scolded. "We're nearly ready."

Bemused, the butler watched the cook shoo the chauffeur into the kitchen. How on _earth _had the boy managed _that_?

* * *

"I hear you ate in the kitchen last night," Violet remarked the following day.

"That's right, your ladyship." The close tabs she kept on his doings amused him.

"Is that the last of them?"

"It is."

"How was it?"

"Sheer bliss, milady, you've no idea."

"Branson," the dowager Countess of Grantham reminded her servant testily, "Don't forget, I eat Mrs. Patmore's _haute cuisine _regularly."

"Of course, milady. So do I. She cooks for the servants' hall, as well as for the family." The Irishman paused to think of a way to explain. "It wasn't the food, so much as the conversation, milady. More piquant than her sauces, if you take my meaning." He glanced back to see her reaction.

The Dowager was smiling. "Saltier, do you mean?"

"Among other flavors, your ladyship."

"So you've really eaten with all the departments now?"

"Yes, milady."

"Even the laundry?"

"Yes, your ladyship. About three weeks ago."

This project of his, to be invited to dine with each and every working group at Downton, interested the Dowager, because it was her suggestion that he consult Mrs. Hughes about eating in the servants' hall that had made it possible. The compromise that had been worked out involved a debit on the garage account for a prorated board wage which was credited to the department that fed the chauffeur. Which meant, in effect, that other departments had an actual incentive in the form of a monetary credit to invite him to eat with them, though this typically happened only when he was called upon to do some work for them.

"And what kind of table does Mrs. Dingle set?"

The chauffeur sighed. "It's fine if you like being in hot water."

A crack of laughter from his passenger made him glance back again.

"Is your comment on her food, or her conversation?"

"I wouldn't call what we had exactly a conversation, milady. I thought for a while there, she was going to throw _me _in the buck wash, just on general principles. I don't think she's quite internalized the concept that getting dirty is what a garage coverall _is for._"

"And what department did you enjoy the most?"

"Try the dairy, milady, if you really want to have a good time."

"I'll keep it in mind… Branson, does it seem to you that you're addressing me rather freely?"

The chauffeur considered. "No more so than usual, surely, your ladyship? You haven't told me to hush," he pointed out.

"Hmm. That's true… tell me, in your reading, have you ever come across any books of advice to servants?"

"I've read Jonathan Swift's," he offered helpfully.

"And what does Mr. Swift advise, in speaking to one's employers?"

"_'When you have done a fault, be always pert and insolent, and behave yourself as if you were the injured person; this will immediately put your master or lady off their mettle.'_" the chauffeur quoted.

"Branson, you are not to take _any _of Mr. Swift's advice, is that clear?"

"Crystal, milady."

* * *

In July, the family left for London. When Branson had the garage work caught up, he offered himself as an extra hand at the stables to help with grooming and exercising the horses. He found, however, that even in this, _certain people _could never be pleased.

"That's disgraceful," Mr. Pratt complained disgustedly, watching the chauffeur on a fairly gentle, but somewhat startled hack. "You ride like a farmboy bareback on a mule."

Mr. Branson smiled down at his colleague. "Thanks for the compliment. My riding must be improving. Grandda always complained I rode like a 'city brat masquerading as a sack of praties' when I was bareback on _his_ mule."

* * *

Mr. Carson wrote to Mrs. Hughes to give the staff the good news that Lady Sybil was making a great success of it in London. Hardly surprising, in Branson's humble opinion. A man would have to be not only blind, but deaf as well, not to realize Lady Sybil's obvious charms.

_'Blessed Virgin, please send Lady Sybil a kind man to marry, a **good man**, one who will love her for who she is and who…' _ he thought of old Lady Grantham and chuckled, _'who won't "crush" her "cheerful, high spirits with too rough handling."' _


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **This chapter begins around the end of Season One.

_"I would marry the man I loved… if I loved you, though you would be… far beneath me… I would dare to be the equal of my inferior. Would you dare as much if you loved me? No: if you felt the beginnings of love for me, you would not let it grow. –__**Arms and the Man**_, George Bernard Shaw

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

To be perfectly honest, if only in the privacy of her own head, Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham, knew exactly what she wanted in her new ladies' maid: she wanted a female Branson. The chauffeur talked when she wanted to hear chatter, hushed when she told him to, was generally cheerful, and always told her the truth, as near as she could tell.

"Branson?"

"Yes, your ladyship?"

"Do you have any sisters in service?"

"My sister Nuala is a house-parlormaid, milady, though we hope not for long."

"What does that mean?"

"Her young man has asked her if she'd like to hang her washing next to his, and she's about decided she'll have him, milady. It's just a question of making everything ready and setting a date."

"Married," her ladyship grumbled. "Why do you all get married?"

The chauffeur glanced back at his passenger, amused. "'The world must be peopled', milady," he quoted. "Anyway, I thought arranging advantageous marriages was the chief occupation of the ladies of the upper classes."

The corner of her ladyship's mouth quirked testily. "For ourselves and our progeny only, Branson. When servants get married, it's just an inconvenience."

The chauffeur glanced back again, lips compressed, but from the expression in the blue eyes it was a smile he suppressed, though he said nothing.

"What?" Violet asked.

The smile won. "If they never got married, where would the next generation of servants come from, your ladyship?"

* * *

Well, if he had no sisters available, perhaps he would have some thoughts on the various candidates. She hated to bother Lady Grantham when she'd been so… _ill._ She decided to ask O'Brien to find the letters and have Branson bring them to the Dower House. Of course, by the time he brought them, the entire world had changed. Despite which, she was still in need of a ladies' maid.

* * *

_"Be careful, my lad, or you'll end up with no job and a broken heart." _

_"What do you mean?" Branson had asked the housekeeper. She hadn't answered… only walked away, because if she acknowledged believing what she had implied…she would have had to _act _on it._

'Never keep servants, however excellent they may be in their stations, whom you know to be guilty of immorality,' Samuel and Sarah Adams advise in **_The Complete Servant_**. Was it immoral to love the daughter of one's employer?

For God's sake, now _he _was doing it. Mrs. Hughes was quite wrong. He wasn't in love with Lady Sybil. Not a bit. Of course, Lady Sybil was an attractive young lady, of course she was, any man would have to be blind not to see it, and she had a lovely sweet, husky, whiskey voice quite unlike any other girl's he'd ever heard. He loved to hear in fact, but no, on the whole, he was not in love with her. How could he be? She was his employer. He was no more in love with her, than he was with Lord Grantham, or the Dowager. He had only hugged her because he had happened to be the one to answer the telephone and bring the word of Gwen's good news, and Gwen had hugged the two of them. It wasn't his doing. The three of them were just friends. And happy. And when Mrs. Hughes shooed Gwen back to work, he'd only taken Lady Sybil's hand because he was feeling good, and because… because he was a fool.

Branson looked at the back of the Dowager's head, in a complete reversal of their usual positions, and smiled at the thought of being in love with that acerbic _grande dame_. He was standing in the middle of the Turkish carpet in her study, waiting patiently for her attention.

To tell the truth, he had no idea why he was even here. O'Brien had approached him with a stack of letters and ordered him, in her inimitably gracious style, to deliver them to old Lady Grantham at the Dower House. Branson, having decided on the second day of his employment, after having tangled with the prickly ladies' maid once, that it would behoove him _never _to do so again, acknowledged her orders with the wary respect he had always since accorded her and obeyed.

Mrs. Jamison, however, had refused to take the letters from him, instead giving him a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, and telling him he was to take the letters in to her ladyship himself… in a little while. Branson wondered why everything at the Dower House was always such a melodrama. Why did he need to hand deliver the letters? Weren't they applications for the position of ladies' maid? What was that to require hand delivery by a chauffeur? Ultimately, he had been ushered into _the presence_, whereupon old Lady Grantham had asked him to wait, that she would be with him shortly.

Branson liked her ladyship's study. It was a pleasant room, elegantly appointed, and a large bookcase stood to one side. He often wondered what books she kept with her, but she had never invited him to look, and he had never yet gotten close enough to see. The bindings were beautiful, at any rate. He looked again at the back of her ladyship's head, and wished he were bold enough to just walk over to her bookcase and look while he waited for her, but he didn't dare…

His gaze drifted down to the rug. It was lovely, it's colors still bright, though it was obviously not new... His unoccupied mind wandered inevitably back to Lady Sybil. How on earth could Mrs. Hughes think his heart was in any danger? Ridiculous! If he didn't dare even to look at his employer's books without permission, how on earth could he dare to be in love with her granddaughter? He didn't dare. She was too far above him. He might be a socialist, but he wasn't a lunatic. He knew the difference between an earl's daughter and a servant. For Heaven's sake, he was an Irishman! No Irishman had been allowed to forget the distance between himself and his English overlords since the twelfth century! Mrs. Hughes was completely wrong. Nothing was going on. Nothing untoward at any rate.

Although, if he were completely honest, something _might_ be going on with Lady Sybil… she had given him a _very _odd look when she watched old Lady Grantham into the car at the end of the garden party…

"Branson?"

"Yes, your ladyship?"

"Ah, good. I thought perhaps you'd taken a fit. Do you have the letters?"

"Yes, milady, right here." He handed them to her.

She accepted them, then sat looking at him thoughtfully.

He tried not to squirm. What was he doing here?

The old lady's smile was bemused… "Branson, I wonder if you'd be willing to help me?"

"Of course, milady. Anything I can do."

She extended the stack of envelopes he'd given her back in his direction. "Look through these letters, and tell me which of these candidates seems to you most like yourself."


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: ** LOUKA [with searching scorn] You have the soul of a servant, Nicola.

NICOLA [complacently] Yes: that's the secret of success in service.

-**_Arms and the Man_**, George Bernard Shaw

**Disclaimer: ** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

"Milady," Branson asked, as he handed the Dowager Countess of Grantham into the motor, "Have you ever wanted something you shouldn't?"

"Naturally."

"So what did you do?"

"Got used to disappointment."

* * *

_"Of course, I blame Branson." Lord Grantham declared loudly to the assembled females of his immediate family. _

_Sybil felt a strong sense of déjà vu. But… she didn't think it had been quite like this before. _

_"I don't think that's fair," Lady Mary told her father earnestly. _

_"He leaves tonight!" _

Lady Sybil started awake. It was a dream, only a dream. Branson was safe…. She drifted back to sleep.

_Lady Sybil felt a warm hand in hers. She looked down at Branson's hand clasping hers. He began, "I don't suppose that—" _

_"Lady Sybil. Her ladyship was asking after you," Mrs. Hughes interrupted. _

_Lady Sybil was not fooled. She gave Branson a look, and left him to Mrs. Hughes' scolding… at least this time he deserved it._

_Suddenly the scene shifted to her bedroom. "I assume this was Branson's scheme," her father said, unnecessarily loud._

_Branson's hand squeezed hers gently. She could feel his bare skin through her lace glove. __"Blame me," she told her father._

_"I__** do**__ blame you!... He leaves tonight!" _

Lady Sybil bolted awake. She had not dreamed that Branson had taken her hand. He _had _taken her hand at the garden party. And she had done nothing. And Mrs. Hughes had seen it. What if she had told Papa? No, they would have heard by now. … and Papa would have been shouting 'he leaves tonight' in earnest.

This was _her _fault, Sybil knew, just as much as the other times. She should have put a stop to Branson's over-familiarity at the outset. But she liked it, in a way… she liked him. She hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings. Yet, things could not go on this way. He would get himself sacked! And all because she'd been too weak to let him know his behavior was inappropriate. Well, no more. However much it might hurt him, it was for his own good.

* * *

Branson wished Mrs. Hughes had not suggested to him that it was possible for him to be in love with Lady Sybil.

Before the garden party, he had thought Lord Grantham's youngest daughter the kindest, sweetest, loveliest, bravest, most wonderful girl he had ever seen or heard of. But now, having been vouchsafed the knowledge that it was possible for him to be in love with her…

... now he knew what Brother Jacob at the Christian Brothers' school had meant when he told his students, "Knowledge is not something you build on; you destroy yourself with knowledge."

"Forget this, Tom," he told himself. "She's too far above you."

* * *

Branson got down from the front bench, opened the door for Lady Grantham, and extended a hand to 'assist' her in stepping down from the motor. It was a courtesy only, the vestigial remains of the more necessary help needed when alighting from a carriage, but that was the way Branson had been taught, and he had always found it charming, a polite way of expressing the care he took of his passengers. Her ladyship's gloved fingers touched his briefly, then she was on the gravel drive, and he walked around to similarly 'assist' her youngest daughter.

Today however, Lady Sybil did not lay her gloved fingers on his as she normally did. He looked at her, to see what was wrong, and found in her blue eyes the most profound look of reproach he had ever seen there. He swallowed reflexively, and looked down at the gravel. The reward for this submisson was her gloved fingers touching his, drawing the chauffeur's eyes back up to those of his young mistress.

She looked at her gloved hand on his, nodded once, then stepped down, removing her hand from his in the process. She nodded curtly, staring at him. _That was the only way he was permitted to touch her hand. Did he understand? _

Branson nodded, and looked down again submissively, letting her pass. The two had not exchanged a single word, but the message was received.

* * *

_'The nice thing about Branson,'_ Violet, the dowager Countess of Grantham reflected complacently, _'is that he is as transparent as a pane of glass.'_

"Your ladyship," he was asking now, as she had known he would, "may I ask you a question?"

"Branson, when have I ever denied you permission to interrogate me to your heart's content?"

"Well, milady, there was the time I asked you—"

"Branson," she interrupted.

"Yes, your ladyship?"

"My question was rhetorical. Was yours?"

"No, milady, it wasn't."

"What do you wish to ask me this time?"

He sighed gustily. "Do you think…" his voice trailed off, and he bit his lip.

"Do I think? That had better not be your question." The aged voice was testy.

He started. "No, milady, it isn't. Do you—your ladyship, I was always taught that it was impertinent for a servant to apologize to his mistress. Because then she'd have to take notice of him, d'y'see? Like when a housemaid faces the wall when a family member comes into the room, so they don't have to take notice of her… Do you think that's true?"

"Yes."

That wasn't the answer he wanted, she could tell. She took pity on him. "You haven't offended me, Branson."

There was a short pause. "I'm glad," he said finally.

Violet let his awkward reply sit between them for a moment, then said, "It's not me you think you've offended, is it?"

"No, milady."

Violet considered. She could make him tell her, but that would be so… styleless. "Has the person you believe you've offended spoken to you about the matter?"

"Not in so many words."

"Then how do you know he or she is offended?"

"Do you need words to let someone know when they've offended you, your ladyship?"

The Dowager snorted. "Not hardly. Have any of your superiors spoken to you? In 'so many words?'"

He sighed. "I suppose being told 'you'll end up with no job' qualifies, so yes."

"Well, you have been a naughty boy, haven't you, Branson?"

The chauffeur glanced back over his shoulder at her.

"Don't look at me, look at the road," she told him.

He obeyed, but clearly wasn't happy about it.

"Does the person you think you've offended know that you've already been reprimanded?"

"I think she must, milady, she… saw us together… after."

"Then yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, it would be impertinent to apologize. Clearly, she thinks it has already been handled. Just stop doing whatever it was you did to give offense... I shall be extremely vexed if you stupidly get yourself sacked, so mind yourself."

"I'd be a little vexed by that myself, milady."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **"Rebuke not a scorner lest he hate thee. Rebuke a wise man, and he will love thee. –Proverbs 9:8.

**Disclaimer: ** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

_He's not the fastest dog…_

"Milady," Branson began, "have you heard that Sylvia Pankhurst—"

"Hush, Branson." Lady Sybil interrupted, softly.

The chauffeur's eyes widened, but he hushed.

He focused his attention on driving, as he normally did when a passenger shut down his attempt to converse. Nearly all of them did so from time to time; it didn't mean anything. It was foolish to feel hurt. He knew she was interested in the women's movement. Maybe she was just out of sorts today, or had something else on her mind, or had the headache, or… or was still angry with him_._

He wished he hadn't taken her hand after Gwen hugged them. No, that wasn't true. What he _wished _was that he was holding it again now. That he could rub the back of that delicate hand and apologize for offending her. But his apology would just offend her more. His black-gloved hand, remembering the feel of delicate crocheted lace and warm flesh, gripped the steering wheel.

Branson willed himself to relax. He was making a melodrama out of nothing. Old Lady Grantham told him to hush regularly. So did his lordship. But they always let him talk again later. So just because Lady Sybil wanted him to keep quiet right now, it didn't mean she _never _wanted him to talk to her again. He sneaked a look back at her set face. He hoped.

* * *

_"Hush, boy," Grandda's words dropped abruptly into the flow of his grandson's chatter. _

_"But, Grandda, I—" _

_"I said, 'Hush!'" the old man bellowed. _

_Round-eyed, the Dublin boy obeyed. The old man's last use of that tone had immediately preceded Tom's unpleasantly intimate introduction to the old man's __shillelagh: he had no desire for another taste of it. _

_Grandda listened intently for a few moments, then shook his head. He turned to the dog beside them. "Did you hear it, girl?"_

_The dog whined. _

_"Go see what it is, then." _

_The dog took off. The two humans waited in silence while the canine investigated, then returned, her tail wagging the 'all clear.' Whatever she and her master might have heard, she could find nothing dangerous. _

_The old man relaxed and turned to deal with his grandson. "You asked for my help, isn't it?" _

_Tom tensed. "It is, Grandda." He heard the anxiety in his voice and willed himself to relax. Grandda's hand alighted softly at the base of his neck. Oddly, the touch soothed him. _

_Very gently, the old man asked, "Did you hear me tell you to hush?" _

_Tom concentrated on keeping his breathing even, which wasn't easy with his heart hammering as it was. He swallowed convulsively and looked down at the turf, despite the fact that the old man had not been looking him in the eye. Both of them were still facing forwards. Gentle fingers massaged Tom's neck. "I heard you," the boy admitted. _

_Grandda kept his voice mild. "Do you know what it means to hush?" _

_Tom nodded, still looking down. He bit his lip. _

_"Tell me." _

_The boy took a breath. "It means 'stop talking.'" _

_"And when you heard me tell you to hush, did you stop talking?" _

_There was a long silence. Grandda waited patiently while Tom gathered the courage to reply. __In the end, he could find only enough for a whisper, and when Grandda heard the answer, he knew why. "The _second _time I did."_

_"That's true," the old man agreed. "The second time I said it, you responded well, exactly the way I want you to respond whenever I tell you to hush."_

_Tom couldn't detect any anger in his grandfather's tone, so he ventured to look back up at him and nod his understanding. The fingers on his neck seemed to approve. He hoped they were finished. _

_They weren't. "Now," Grandda continued, still quietly, but insistently, "tell me what happened the _first_ time." _

_This silence was even longer. Then, "I kept talking."_

_"So would you say you had obeyed or disobeyed?" _

_Despite his shame he forced the truth out: "Disobeyed." _

_"Tom." _

_Brimming blue eyes met those of the old man. Sorry. Waiting. _

_Incredibly, the old man was still not angry. "What was different the second time?" _

_Tom thought. "You repeated yourself… and you yelled… I was afraid." _

_Grandda pointed to the dog. "When I told her to go check out the noise, did I have to repeat myself?" _

_"No, she obeyed you right away." _

_"Did I have to raise my voice?" _

_Tom shook his head. _

_"Should I have to give _you _an order twice, Tom? Or raise my voice?"_

_"No, you shouldn't…" _

_"I don't want you to be afraid." _

_Tom was surprised. _

_"I want to hear the things you have to say… but I can't always… and sometimes, we have to pay attention to what's around us." _

_Tom nodded. _

_"So the next time I tell you to hush, what are you gonna do?" _

_"Stop talking." _

_"Good." Grandda looked at the boy's face a moment. "You have a question?" _

_"For how long… when you tell me to hush, Grandda, for how long do I have to stay hushed?"_

_Grandda considered. "Until I ask you something, or tell you that you can speak again," then, thinking about the way the boy chattered at night, "or if I've told you to 'hush and go to sleep,' the next morning." _

_Tom nodded, biting his lower lip thoughtfully. _

_"Something else?" the old man asked. _

_"Thank—" Tom cleared his throat. "Thank you for correcting me." _

* * *

Days passed. Hope springing eternal as it does, the next time Lady Sybil had a solo errand in the motor, Branson tried again for a normal conversation.

"Milady, do you think—"

"Branson, hush."

He hushed immediately, dismayed. So it hadn't been his imagination. He closed his eyes for a moment, but opened them again almost immediately, because he was driving and needed to see the road.

_'Be careful, my lad, or you'll end up with no job and a broken heart.'_

The price for thoughtlessly taking Lady Sybil's hand was the loss of her friendship. _He wished he had known that!_ He felt his eyes prick, and fill, and he blinked desperately. He felt like laying his head on the steering wheel. _He could **not** cry now! Please. _Later, yes. Later, he would weep, but while she was here behind him, it was imperative that he should control himself. _Please, Blessed Virgin… help me. _He wished he could really pray now, he needed to… God, how he needed to. One hand left the wheel and felt the pocket where he carried his little rosary. He felt the bumps that were the green beads under the cloth of his uniform and was soothed.

_'Milady, I am so sorry,' _he thought, but was forbidden to say.

And he could pray, after all, even if he had to devote part of his attention to driving, even if his currently implacable mistress was in the passenger seat behind him, even if his eyes were open, even if he wasn't kneeling, he could still pray, _'Iesu, __mitis et humilis corde, exaudi me…_[Jesus, meek and humble of heart, hear me…]_ … a desiderio ameris, Líbera me, Iesu.' _[…from the desire of being loved, deliver me, Jesus.]

* * *

"That is completely absurd, Branson!" Lord Grantham exclaimed. "An utter Utopian fantasy!"

"I'm sorry, your lordship, but I don't agree, and if—"

"Until will live in a world very different to this one, nations will _have _to fight to maintain their sovereignty," the older man snapped.

"Now _that_ I do agree with, milord." The chauffeur chuckled a little. "But surely, you're not seriously suggesting that empires are mobilizing armies because they actually _care _about Serbian sovereignty? Now who's being naïve, your lordship?"

Lord Grantham was irritated by the boy's going against him, but if he accused him of it, he knew he'd only get _Mill _quoted at him. "We have a duty to help protect _Belgium's_ sovereignty, at any rate," he suggested thoughtfully.

"Many nations desire their sovereignty, milord," the Irishman opined significantly, "yet kings and empires are unmoved."

* * *

It appeared the chauffeur had finally taken the hint. He had picked Lady Sybil up in front of the house for her trip to Malton, and they had set out with no words exchanged save the extremely perfunctory and formal greetings of any mistress and her servant.

For several miles there was complete silence, except for road noises, and the sound of the engine. Unfortunately, just as Lady Sybil was congratulating herself on having finally taught him the appropriate way for him to behave, he spoke: "Milady, where do—"

"How many times do I have to tell you to hush!" Lady Sybil detested doing this, but it was for his own good.

To her great surprise, he did not obey, but his tone as he continued was devoid of expression. "You haven't yet told me where I'm to take you, milady."

"Oh," she said, realizing he was correct. "I promised to look in on old Mrs. Stewart."

The chauffeur nodded, and took the turnoff that lead to the old woman's cottage.

* * *

The Crawley family had entered into a conspiracy to drive their chauffeur mad.

"Has she forgiven you?" the Dowager Countess of Grantham asked.

"N— Who, your ladyship?"

"Don't be coy, Branson. Lady Sybil, of course."

The chauffeur took one hand off the steering wheel in order to press it momentarily against his chest. His heart pounded furiously at this betrayal. "She told you?" he asked, his voice strained. Well, he already had the broken heart, he shouldn't be surprised that the 'no job' wasn't far behind.

"She didn't have to tell me, I saw the whole thing."

He glanced back. "Your ladyship?"

"At the garden party, Branson. Did you think the three of you were invisible when you and Lady Sybil hugged… the maid that's become a secretary, what was her name?"

"Gwen, your ladyship." He sighed. "Gwen Dawson."

"Exactly."

There was a moment's silence. Then, "Branson, I've been meaning to speak to you."

He waited. He was finished; there was nothing for him to say.

"Isn't it about time you got married?"

"What?!"

"I've been thinking that you should get married."

He shook his head. Clearly he had lost his mind. Or she had. He laughed. _'Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.' _Who said that? "I thought you said it was an inconvenience when servants marry."

The old lady tsked. He glanced back to see her aged hand wave away this objection. "Not a chauffeur. A chauffeur getting married is no trouble. You already have the cottage. Just stick the girl in there."

Branson felt like his head was exploding. She wasn't serious! Stick Lady Sybil in the chauffeur's cottage?!

"You're obviously smitten."

He was obviously a lunatic! This could not be happening. He was delusional. His hearing was playing tricks. "No, milady, I'm n—"

"I daresay you fancy yourself in love."

"No!"

"Branson. What have I told you about lying to me?"

He would be sacked if he told her the truth.

"There's no shame in it."

He was ashamed.

"And you appear to be well suited to each other."

Yes, very well suited.

"You should offer for her."

Branson thought. If this was a trick, it was very unlike the dowager. But it _was _like her to make him confess before… his eyes filled with tears. He was sick of crying, his knees ached from praying, he disgusted himself, and old Lady Grantham was going to make him say it before throwing him out. Fine. He took a breath. Suppressed tears filled his sinuses so he could hardly breathe, but still he managed to ground out the required sentence: "She's too far above me, your ladyship." He hung his head.

"I thought you were a socialist."

"I am."

"Doesn't that mean you believe everyone is equal?"

"Not _that _equal."

"What nonsense."

He gripped the steering wheel and glanced back at her. "Milady?"

"Branson, my father was a baronet. When I married the man who would become the 4th Earl of Grantham, I was marrying someone who was above me, yes, but not _too far_ above me. My boy," she smiled at him fondly, "it's _never _too far when a couple are well suited."

Mercifully, he had braked the motor because a flock of sheep was crossing the road ahead of them. He was glad for the pause in their journey, as he feared risking the old woman's life if he drove while she said such incredible things to him. He wanted to believe her so badly. But ultimately, it didn't matter whether she supported them or not. Lady Sybil didn't love him.

"Milady, I'm touched. Truly. You don't know what it means to me that you're saying this, but…"

"But?"

"She doesn't love me."

"I think she does."

He was shaking his head. "And even if you accepted it, do you think anyone else would? With the difference in our stations?"

"Of course," she said. "Don't be such an idiot."

He was an idiot, that was clear. He smiled at her, idiotically amused, then turned back to the road, to watch the last of the sheep and their shepherd pass.

"And anyway, Branson," the dowager was saying. "I don't see why you're making such a big deal out of the difference in your stations. Even if she is above you these days, don't forget she started as an under housemaid."

Branson couldn't help it. He lay his head on the steering wheel and laughed.

* * *

"Branson," Lady Sybil said, leaning forward to allow the chauffeur to hear her better from his perch on the front bench. "I hear Mr. Asquith has declared the Home Rule Bill is to become law, and that it will be implemented as soon as the war is over. Perhaps as soon as Christmas!"

Branson glanced back, incredulous, one eyebrow on the rise.

The girl smiled at him, shrugging, "Well, after all, sometimes it's amusing to hear your chatter."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **This chapter begins during the period between Seasons One and Two, ending shortly after the day of the of the Hospital Benefit Concert in Season Two, episode One.

**Disclaimer: ** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

"So Thomas has gone into the Medical Corps, has he?"

"That's right, your ladyship."

"I suppose William will be next."

"I doubt it, milady. He says his father made him promise not to enlist."

"And what about you, Branson?"

"Me? I don't think I've even met William's father, let alone promised him anything."

* * *

"Branson?"

"Yes, your ladyship."

"Is it true that Mr. Crawley has accepted a commission?"

"That's the rumour, milady."

"I know it's the rumour. I'm asking if it's true."

_She had to be kidding. _"You'd know better than I would, milady."

"I sincerely doubt that. Servants always know everything."

Branson wondered when he had been promoted to the position of Dowager's Chief Spymaster. "Not me, milady, I'm as innocent as a newborn lamb."

"Oh, please."

"Milady, surely Mr. Crawley would advise his lordship if—"

"And if he had, I wouldn't be asking _you_, would I?"

"Well, then—"

"Branson, I personally saw you driving Mrs. Bird in the waggonette yesterday, so don't pretend you aren't fully informed about everything happening at Crawley House."

"Milady, I wasn't interrogating her. I was going into Ripon to go to mass, and she wanted to go to a Quaker meeting, so I drove her, that's all. I got permission first."

"I'm supposed to believe you drove all the way to Ripon, in a horse drawn vehicle no less, without holding _any _conversation with your passenger?"

The chauffeur laughed. "Well, you have me there. If you must know, your ladyship, and if Crawley House servants' hall gossip will satisfy you…"

* * *

"Branson?"

"Yes, your ladyship?"

"My spies inform me you've been reading Spinoza."

Branson wondered whether old Lady Grantham's 'spies' were named Mr. Ledger or Robert Crawley. The chauffeur's money was on the latter, since his lordship had been grilling him on this selfsame subject every time he got in the car since the day he'd first checked the book out. Did the British Aristocracy have no business of their own, that the reading material of their servants was of such abiding interest? "Yes, your ladyship, I have."

"And what does he say?"

"He says that free will is an illusion: that each of us is born in our rightful place, and we should stay in it."

"And do you agree with that philosophy, Branson?"

"It's not my place to say, is it, milady?"

* * *

"Branson, do you think you'll enlist?"

"I'm serving 'king and country' by driving you to Thirsk, milady."

Old Lady Grantham wondered why she found this answer comforting.

* * *

"Branson?"

"That's me, milady."

"Do you have any brothers?"

"Certainly, your ladyship." He thought about the last time she had asked him about his family. "Not in service though, I'm afraid."

"How about in the army?"

"William's in the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, milady. Will that do you?"

"Very commendable... he's not your only brother is he?"

"Not by a long chalk, your ladyship."

* * *

"What is this driving mania, Branson?"

"Driving 'mania'? I'm sure I couldn't say, your ladyship."

"Lord Grantham tells me you're teaching Lady Edith to drive."

"Yes, milady." He pursed his lips to restrain a smile. "Would you like me to teach you as well, your ladyship?"

An indignant snort was her only reply.

* * *

"Did you hear about what happened to William at the concert, Branson?"

"Yes, your ladyship."

"How is he? Is he still upset?"

"I'm afraid so, milady. He took it hard… It's ironic really, when you consider how badly he wants to enlist."

"Do you think he will?"

"He says his father won't release him from his promise not to. I would guess he'd consider breaking a promise to his father several degrees more shameful than any demonstration by young women he doesn't even know. Come to think of it, anyone who dislikes those girls' protests should really start campaigning for women's equality, then we could send the White Feather girls to fight the Hun themselves rather than trying to shame other people into going."

"Wretched harridans. Did you see them?"

Branson chuckled. "I did, your ladyship, and they saw me."

The chauffeur couldn't see the concern that flashed across the old woman's face, since he was facing the road, but he could hear it plainly in her voice as she replied, "I hope—that is, they didn't give you one of those awful things, did they?"

"Certainly, they did, your ladyship." His lighthearted tone threw her.

"But you're not upset?"

"No. Why should I be? To tell you the truth, milady, I feel a lot of sympathy for them, for anyone brave enough to make a political protest like that."

"Politics," the Dowager grunted. "I've had about enough of politics."

Branson glanced back to smile teasingly at her. "Now, your ladyship, you know what the ancient Greeks called people who had no interest in politics?"

Presumably she did know, because she replied acidly, "I would strongly encourage you not apply any such terms to your patron and employer, Branson."

He was able to smother the smile on his lips by pursing them, but nothing could hide the amusement in the limpid blue eyes. "Of course not, your ladyship." He obligingly reverted to their previous topic. "Anyway, better they should waste their feathers on me than give them to someone who would be hurt or offended. It's not like it's the first one I've ever been given."

"Their disapproval doesn't make you want to enlist?"

The chauffeur laughed. "Not hardly. It would take more than a frown and a few feathers to make me take any action I hadn't freely chosen for myself, your ladyship." He thought of William's anguished obedience to the promise his father had extorted from him. "And once I had so chosen, it would take more than the disapproval of a parent to stop me."

Both of them were silent for a few minutes, then Branson spoke again. "In point of fact, milady, I'm acquiring quite an impressive collection of those feathers. When I get enough perhaps I'll make them into a headdress like an American Indian chief and petition his lordship to let me add it to my uniform."

"What does Lord Grantham say when they approach you?"

"I don't think he knows, milady. It typically happens when I'm waiting for him somewhere."

"You haven't told him?"

"No, milady. It would be like rubbing salt in his wounds. Going on active duty is a sore subject with his lordship because he—" The chauffeur stopped abruptly.

"He what?" the Dowager prompted gently.

For a few moments there was no sound but the tires on the road and the roar of the engine.

"He what?" she reminded him.

"I'm sorry, milady," the chauffeur said quietly. "I spoke out of turn. Please forget I said that."

She hesitated only a moment. "Said what, Branson? I heard nothing."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: **This chapter takes place during the period between Episodes 3 and 4 of Season Two; or, more specifically, after the dinner for General Sir Herbert Strutt, but before the scene outside the garage during which Branson tells Sybil that _she_ loves _him, _but is just too afraid to admit it.

If you haven't yet read my Carson/Branson story **_Reasons_**, this would be a good time, since the action in this chapter will make better sense if you know what 'consequences' Branson is suffering.

**Disclaimer: ** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Violet couldn't put her finger on just what it was, but she knew when something didn't strike her right. "Branson?"

"Yes, your ladyship?"

"Are you well?"

"Perfectly well. Thank you, milady."

_Which didn't seem to leave much room for doubt. So why did she still doubt? _

* * *

"Robert," Violet asked her son, "have you noticed anything odd about Branson lately?"

Lord Grantham considered. "How do you mean?"

"He's not…" she did not know how to explain it. "… not himself." She let a moment pass in silence. "You haven't noticed it? Maybe it's just me."

"Mama…" Lord Grantham began, then hesitated.

"You _have_ noticed it, then?" his mother demanded sharply.

"You know he was called up?"

"Oh my God, _Branson's _going in the Army?" Violet knew the boy didn't want to go. No wonder he was acting so queer.

"No, he's not," Lord Grantham replied quietly.

"He's not? What a relief!" then, realizing what her son had just said, she objected, "What can you mean? You just said he's been called up!"

Lord Grantham wondered if it was his place to tell his mother this, but continued anyway, mainly because she seemed so concerned. "He was… but it seems he has a heart murmur, so they don't want him." _Either, _he thought, but forbore to say.

"A heart 'murmur'? Is it serious?"

"Serious enough for him to be deemed unsuitable for service at any rate."

"He's _perfectly _suitable for service, he's just not suitable to be blown to Hades," Violet snapped, simultaneously irritated and relieved. If _that_ was the boy's problem, he deserved a good swift kick. By rights, he should be thanking God for his good fortune. She hadn't even needed to enlist Dr. Clarkson's aid on his behalf. The Lord works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. _A heart murmur! Who knew? _

But if he wasn't going in the army, then what was wrong with him? She turned ideas over in her mind. What would give them an insight into the young Irishman's thought processes if he wouldn't talk? Her eye fell on the ledger. _Aha! _"What's he reading these days, Robert?" _That should be a clue. _

"I've no idea," Robert responded. "There's the ledger; have a look for yourself."

The Dowager looked at the current page. It was filled with her granddaughter Edith's handwriting, signing books in and out on behalf of the convalescent officers. Violet had to search for the chauffeur's distinctive penmanship. She turned back to the previous page, then returned to the current one, now far more disturbed than she had been before. "Robert, come and look at this."

"Not reading **_Arcadian Adventures with the Idle Rich_**, is he now?" her son laughed.

"No," Violet told him. "He isn't reading _anything_."

* * *

"Jamison," the Dowager Countess of Grantham asked her butler, "how did Branson seem to you at luncheon?"

"He didn't eat with us today, my lady."

"Don't we normally give him lunch on long round days?"

"Normally we do, my lady, yes."

"So why didn't he eat with you?"

"Well, my lady, apparently this month isn't quite… normal."

"This _month_, did you say? What does that mean, Jamison?"

"I don't really know, my lady."

"How can you not know?"

"Well, for the past couple of weeks, when we've asked Mr. Branson if he would eat with us, he's said he 'couldn't.'"

"'Couldn't', do you say? Why not?"

"He has not confided in me, my lady."

"And… has anyone else 'confided' in you?"

Jamison gave his mistress the sidelong look that meant he knew something, if unofficially.

"Don't be coy, Jamison. Out with it. What do you know?"

"Well, my lady, rumour has it that he's not been eating with any other department either, but has instead been keeping himself exclusively to the chauffeur's cottage whenever he's not actually performing work."

"Is that right?" The old woman was thoughtful.

"So I'm told, my lady."

"Thank you, Jamison."

If Branson was choosing to eat alone in the teeth of invitations to dine in company, then something was definitely wrong with the young man, and Violet Crawley was going to found out what it was, or she didn't style herself the Dowager Countess of Grantham.

* * *

"Carson," Lord Grantham asked his butler, "do you think Branson is all right?"

For a split second, Mr. Carson was afraid Mr. Branson had _done something_. He would rend the lying ingrate limb from limb. Almost immediately, however, logic reasserted itself. The chauffeur had, on his own initiative, apologized for lying to Carson, and however wrongheaded the boy might be at times, Carson believed him to be sincere in his wish to remain at Downton. Ergo, he would not have done anything. "As far as I know, my lord. Is there a problem?"

"Not a problem, no. I just noticed that it's been several weeks since he's borrowed any books, and it isn't like him. I thought perhaps he might be taking being turned down by the army... too hard."

_That's one way of putting it, _Carson thought. What he said was: "I believe I may know what has happened, my lord. I'll speak to the boy."

"If there's anything I can do…" his lordship offered.

"I doubt that will be necessary, your lordship. I'm fairly sure it's simply a misunderstanding."

"A 'misunderstanding', Carson? A misunderstanding of what?"

The butler hesitated, sorry he'd mentioned it. "Your lordship, I'm afraid Mr. Branson is a little in disgrace at the moment. I've had occasion to… chasten him for… an attempted 'prank.' Nothing serious, you understand, my lord, but it may be that he believes his permission to borrow books has been suspended."

"Did the 'prank' involve books?"

"No, your lordship. Furthermore, I got wind of what he intended and put a stop to it before anything could happen. He has given me his assurance that he will never so much as contemplate anything even remotely similar ever again, my lord." _Or I'll wring the wretch's neck for him like a roasting hen's._

"I see. So it's all settled then."

"Yes, my lord, I believe so."

"Very well. Thank you, Carson."

* * *

"Robert, I've found out something—"

"About Branson? I know all about it."

"You do? What do you know?"

"Carson says our tame revolutionary is in disgrace."

"In disgrace?" she queried.

"It seems Carson discovered him preparing a little prank and put a stop to it in no uncertain terms. Carson indicated the matter was settled."

Violet nodded and let it pass, but when she was again in the library, she checked the ledger. There was a new entry for the name T. Branson. For a wonder, he had borrowed a novel: Dostoyevsky's _**Crime and Punishment**._

* * *

"Will you be taking luncheon with us, Mr. Branson?" Mr. Jamison asked.

The chauffeur eyed the older man. He wondered if this were a test. No other department had issued a single invitation since... since Mr. Carson had directed him not to accept. Only the Dower House. Yet the enmity between the two butlers was so well known, it seemed unlikely that Mr. Jamison would be willing to assist Downton Abbey's butler in testing the obedience of its chauffeur. He _would _be willing to subvert Mr. Carson's authority, however.

"With regret, Mr. Jamison. It isn't possible for me to remain. I thank you and Mrs. Jamison for the thought all the same."

* * *

"Well?" the Dowager asked.

Jamison shook his head.

_If the matter was settled, why was he still keeping himself in seclusion?_

* * *

"Branson?"

"Yes, milady?"

"May I ask you a question?"

"Certainly, your ladyship."

"Have you become a hermit?"

The chauffeur was silent, his mind racing. "Is that a rhetorical question, my lady?"

"No," the Dowager snapped.

Branson wondered if there were some way he could avoid this conversation. He was ashamed of himself for not just admitting everything to her, but to do so would be dangerous. And stupid. And he had exceeded his quota of unforgivably stupid actions some time ago. He tried for a neutral tone, feigning innocence, hoping against hope to convince her that he had not the faintest notion of what she could possibly be driving at. "Of course not, your ladyship."

"So your sudden dedication to taking all your meals in the chauffeur's cottage is part of your punishment?" she demanded.

_Oh, God. _"Who says I'm being punished?" The automatic all-purpose defense of childhood had kicked in.

"Carson."

_Well, he's the man who would know, _Branson was startled into admitting, if only inside his own head.

Carson had told her. Branson felt suddenly that the air was too thin to allow continued breathing. He thought he might faint for a moment. What did her ladyship expect him to say? He considered and discarded at least half a dozen replies, but in the end remained silent. After all, what _could _he say?

Since Carson had told her, why was she even asking him? Just to see him squirm? It was what Lady Edith would do. It was surprising how alike old Lady Grantham and Lady Edith were when you came right down to it. Though Lady Edith would already have demanded he reply, and the Dowager was not saying anything. Branson prayed she would drop the matter. He tried to think of what saint to petition. He gave a silent snort of laughter._ 'St. Telemachus,' _Branson addressed his personal patron, the patron of idiots, _'please let her drop it.'_

Branson concentrated on driving and on trying not to anticipate her next salvo. Thanks to Mr. Carson, Branson had had ample time to consider his actions vis-à-vis Mr. Matthew's commanding general, and had improved his time to the extent of coming inevitably to the only conclusion which was logically sound: that he himself was the maggot-headed author of his own misfortunes, so no matter what consequences ultimately ensued, he had absolutely no cause for complaint.

The chauffeur tried hard to resign himself to accept whatever her ladyship felt moved to say. It was not unlike going to confession: _"Bless me, your ladyship, for I have sinned..." _He doubted he would receive absolution.

Father James had been transferred out of the diocese a few weeks before, but he had still been there the evening Branson had gone into Ripon (with Mr. Carson's blessing) in order to confess his attempted assault on General Sir Herbert Strutt and the lie to Mr. Carson which had accompanied it. The priest had told the Irishman a number of very hard and very true things about himself by way of 'spiritual counseling,' and the penance which had been the priest's parting gift to him had been completed only _yesterday. _Branson shuddered.

The calendar had not yet run out on the penance Mr. Carson had imposed. And now it was moot. He wondered what the Dowager planned to do to him. Branson imagined himself with a servant who had attempted to pour slop over the head of a guest. What would he do with that servant? He would give him the sack. That was what he deserved. Branson sighed.

He did not want to leave Lady Sybil, even if she chose never to cast her lot with his. He did not want to leave. _Please don't make me leave, your ladyship. I beg you... _ But he could not say that. He was responsible for what had occurred. He was at fault. He did not deserve mercy. _Please don't make me leave... _

When Violet finally spoke to him again, her tone was surprisingly gentle. "Would you like me to speak to Carson for you? Maybe I can help."

_'Maybe I can help?'_ Branson was genuinely touched, the Dowager's compassion an unlooked-for miracle of grace. "No, but I thank you, milady. Truly."

"Does that mean you think you deserve this punishment?"

"No, your ladyship, I don't."

"You don't? Then why won't you let me—"

He laughed softly, regret mingled with gratitude and even humour in the lilting Irish voice."You misunderstand me, your ladyship," he told her. "I deserve worse_._"


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** "We do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy." ― William Shakespeare, _The Merchant of Venice_

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

_… but he is the most obedient. _

Lady Mary Crawley knew a secret. She had promised Sybil she would not betray the chauffeur, but she had to do something.

The big double doors of the garage were open. Lady Mary walked inside. "Branson?"

"Yes, milady?" He walked out of the office alcove shrugging into his uniform jacket, the little piece of machinery he'd been working on left on the desk, while he attended to her.

Facing him now, Mary wondered what she had thought she would say. Promise me you won't do anything stupid? How dare you propose to my sister?

He was looking at her with concern, his expression so innocent, that Mary thought Sybil must not have told him that she knew. Or that Sybil had made it up even. Though why would she? Mary stared at the chauffeur.

"Milady?"

"Mama…" Mary groped for an excuse for having come out here. "Mama forgot what time she told you she wanted to leave tomorrow."

Branson blinked. "Tomorrow, milady? Her ladyship doesn't have a trip tomorrow, as far as I know. She's ordered the motor at ten the day after tomorrow to go to Malton." He ended the statement on a rising inflection, as though it were a question.

"Ah, yes, that's what I meant," Mary agreed, feeling like an idiot, but relieved. "At ten the day after tomorrow. I'll let Mama know."

"Thank you, milady," the chauffeur said. But he said it to the air, because the oldest Crawley daughter had fled.

* * *

_"Should you be doing that?" the old man's voice was sharp with disapproval. _

_"No, Grandda," Tom answered. He stopped immediately, but he was pretty sure it was too late. He met the old man's eyes and saw the truth of his guess. The old man pointed to the ground next to him. Tom looked where his grandfather was pointing, but didn't move._

_The old man was surprised. He stared at his grandson, brow creasing, then at his housekeeper Muirne, who was walking with them. She shook her head. She had no idea. To her knowledge, Tom had been called to account at least half a dozen times in this exact same way; he had never before refused to obey the old man's signal to come and stand next to him to receive the smack on the posterior and warning not to be told a third time which had become the standard disciplinary measure for a second infraction._

_The old man considered his grandson thoughtfully. The boy looked anxious, not defiant, so why was he disobeying? He must know he was only going to be— a vague memory teased and the old man sought and found the answer to the mystery in his grandson's eyes. If Tom hadn't remembered to follow the rule, it was clear he remembered how many times it had been brought to his attention. "This _is _the third time, isn't it?"_

_"Yes," Tom admitted softly, his tone conveying a regret that was edged with fear. _

_Well, there it was. The third time. Boy and man had both known it would happen eventually. "Do you know where my shillelagh is?" _

_Tom nodded slowly, eyes now on the ground._

_"Tell me."_

_Tom visualized the last place he'd seen it. "It's in your bedchamber. In the southeast corner. Behind the door."_

_"Run and get it." The old man ordered flatly._

_Tom took off immediately. The two adults watched him go. It was a goodly distance back to the farmhouse. He'd be blowing like a bellows when he returned if he kept up that pace._

_ "He's _running,_" Muirne said, "to get the stick you're going to beat him with." _

_Brian looked at the old woman with a hint of amusement. "Naturally," he agreed. "Running is his only hope now."_

_"You mean to say there's hope?" the housekeeper asked in surprise. In her experience, which was extensive, Brian Branson was not given to leniency. And he had told her repeatedly that he felt he had made enough concessions already in the case of this 'city' grandson, who knew none of the things the other children at the farm had known from the cradle. Would he really allow yet another intercession? _

_The old man laughed. "You must think so, since you're about to make a plea on his behalf. Tell me, woman," he asked her, "would you be doing that if he weren't running?" _

_Tom was breathless by the time he reached the house. The stick was there, just as he'd known it would be. It had fascinated him the first time he'd seen it, because it was perfectly straight and because of its odd color. The second time he'd seen it, Grandda had used it on him. The wood was stained a strange purplish blue, the exact shade of the bruises it was going to give him. Tom grabbed it and tore out of the house back to his grandfather._

_ They were watching for the boy's return. It had taken him less time than the minimum Brian had thought would be necessary to cover the distance, so he had not dawdled along the way. Tom tried to hand the stick to his grandfather, but the old man waved him off. "Keep hold of it yet a minute, boy, while you catch your breath. I want to ask you something first."_

_'First,' Tom thought, shuddering. He planted one end of the stick on the ground, and held onto the other end obediently, leaning heavily against it while his lungs worked diligently to try to pull in enough air to keep him going. He stared at the ground, listening to the panting of his own breath, feeling vulnerable, his hands slick with sweat on the bluish purple stick, trying not to be afraid and not succeeding. The adults said nothing, either to him, or to each other, merely waiting patiently for him to be ready. _

_When his breathing had returned to normal, Tom heaved in a final deep breath, and looked up at the adults. "Yes, sir?"_

_"Muirne here thinks you should be spared. I want to know what you think." _

_Tom stared at Muirne, then at his grandfather. The adults' faces were unreadable. Grandda's 'best' dog was not with them, but Tom thought of her suddenly, thought of the way she looked at his grandfather when she'd done something wrong, the way the dog trusted the old man, even when she was afraid. Tom picked up the stick and offered it to the old man horizontally across his outstretched palms, and gave the only answer he could give: "I think it isn't up to me." _

_As the three walked back to the house, Tom's arm encircling the old man's waist, the boy said, "Grandda, can I ask you something?" _

_"What is it, boy?" _

_"Why did you decide not to…" his voice trailed off. He couldn't say it. _

_"Not to beat you?" _ _Brian felt the motion of his grandson's head, now pressed against his side, nodding. _ _"Well," Brian began, looking over at Muirne, who was walking contentedly on his other side. "It was because 'mercy… dropped as the gentle rain from heaven…' to bless both me and you." _ _The old woman smiled at her master, but said nothing. _

_Tom's head had craned up to look at his grandfather. "Is that from the bible?"_

_"It isn't. It's from a play by Shakespeare. I'll show it to you tonight after dinner." _

* * *

Lady Mary stared at the back of Branson's head. She should say something to him. Warn him away from her sister. She thought of Sybil saying she _'didn't even think she liked him like that.'_ Probably nothing would come of it. Poor Branson. Sybil might be an idealist, but she wasn't stupid. No one in her right mind _wanted_ to be poor. For all his confidence, the chauffeur was likely to end up with a broken heart, even if he were lucky enough to keep his job. And keeping his job was by no means a certainty. If he got caught, he wouldn't even get a reference.

She thought of Branson the night of the count in Ripon, when Sybil had been hurt. Of Papa shouting_ "He leaves tonight!" _Of Branson begging her, _"You'll let me know how she gets on? …Please." _Please. She had warned him that the blame for that escapade of Sybil's was likely to fall on his head, and his main concern had been whether Sybil was all right. Even though Sybil had lied to him and nearly got him sacked…. he was in love with her. Mary had known it then. She knew it now.

Granny had wanted to punish Lavinia for being in love with Matthew. Yet how could anyone help being in love with Matthew? Mary was, herself, God help her. She thought of Lavinia crying in the garden at Crawley House, saying she didn't think she could bear to live if Matthew were dead. Was that something for which the poor girl should be destroyed?

Did she truly want to punish Branson for being in love with Sybil? Sybil was so sweet, how could anyone _help _loving her? She could tell Papa or Granny, but they would make the most terrible fuss, Branson would be turned off without a reference, and Sybil would never forgive her. _Please_, he had said.

Mary wondered again why Carson had twisted Branson's wrist and propelled him out of the dining room on the night of General Sir Herbert Strutt's inspection. That had been very odd. Anna had followed them out with the soup tureen. Mary guessed Anna probably knew the whole story, but she doubted the maid would tell even under torture. Lady Mary had secrets of her own Anna was concealing, so she should be more sympathetic. _Please, Mama, _Mary remembered saying. She had wept and begged her mother not to tell Papa. And she had been shown mercy. _Please, _Branson had said.

Lady Mary said nothing to the chauffeur, just stared at the back of his head, while silent tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto the breast of her coat.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** "Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall." –Oliver Goldsmith

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

"Have you been given permission to attend the officer's 'concert' this afternoon, Branson?"

"Yes, your ladyship. I'm looking forward to it."

"I gather you and my son have retrieved his estimable, if halt, former gentleman's personal gentleman from the wilds of Kirkbymoorside."

"That's right, your ladyship." Branson smiled at her description, but felt moved to defend his friend: "You yourself walk with a stick, milady; I would think you would be the first to see that unrestricted mobility isn't all that important in the calculation of real worth."

"Oh, I am," the Dowager assured him. "Besides, doesn't Bates act as a sort of second in command to Carson?"

"Yes, milady, and Mr. Carson is very glad Mr. Bates is back."

"I daresay. Well, perhaps Bates affects a walking stick for the same reason I do at that."

Branson grinned. "And what reason is that, your ladyship?"

"To ensure impertinent young servants mind their manners."

On the way home, the Dowager addressed him again: "Branson?"

"Yes, your ladyship?"

"Were you aware that William and Mr. Crawley had been missing?"

"Of course, milady."

"Well, why in heaven's name didn't you tell me?"

Branson blinked. "Do you mean to say you didn't know, milady?"

"No, I only found out a few minutes before they walked into the library and started singing."

Branson actually looked back at her over his shoulder in surprise. "I thought you knew everything, milady." Maybe he _would _be able to keep his secret from her, after all. Praise Jesus.

Fortunately, the Dowager was not thinking about Branson and any secrets the chauffeur might have. "Perhaps it's just as well," she concluded after a moment's reflection. "This way I was spared the necessity of worrying, since they're already back safe."

_'Yes,'_ Branson thought, _'What you don't know, won't hurt either of us… I hope.'_

* * *

Of course, after Amiens they weren't so lucky. This time Mr. Matthew and William weren't missing, and weren't all right. Especially William. And the person whose restricted mobility was an issue in calculating his real worth was Mr. Matthew.

Branson thought of his own William and the letters Will (called Liam by everyone but Tom) had him sent him from the Dardanelles. _'Dear Tom,' _his older half-brother had written, _'This place where we're fighting used to be called_ _the Hellespont, and if you want my opinion Hades is still a good name for it.' _ It was a wonder all the men at the front weren't dead, really. And what was it all for? _Blessed Virgin, please let it all be for __**something**_.

The Dowager arranged for William to be brought back to Downton. Daisy had initially told Branson that Dr. Clarkson wouldn't allow it, but cane or no cane, in any competition between those two, Branson's money was on the Dowager. Indeed, in a competition between the Dowager and _anybody…_

And then the war was over, and one more competition between the Dowager and Mrs. Crawley ended happily with Mrs. Crawley deciding to devote herself to the war refugees, so that Downton Abbey could return to being a decadent display of the obscene wealth of the upper classes. And Sybil had still not given him an answer. Then Mr. Matthew planted his feet firmly on the road to recovery, and she did give him an answer, and it was that she too wished to make a journey: with him. So the two of them started out, but then her sisters brought them back. And miraculously, the Dowager never found out about _any_ of it.

And somehow, it was only when he and Sybil were standing in the Drawing Room, telling her family that they were in love and planned to make their lives together, that he realized he would not be allowed to say goodbye.

* * *

When Branson walked into the drawing room that evening, it can't honestly be said that Violet thought anything except, _'What is Branson doing out of uniform and in the drawing room?' _But her immediate thought was that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation, such as 'his mother must be ill and he wishes to go immediately to her side, but both Lord Grantham and Carson are in the Drawing Room, so he's come in to secure permission to leave.' Or something. And it was clear that Robert thought so, too, because he looked at the boy, and asked, "Yes?" in a tone that suggested he too trusted Branson would have an acceptable excuse for having walked in unannounced.

But then the boy looked at _her_ and said _'I'm here.' _And Violet had time to think, _'but why?' _Before Sybil rose, and Violet _knew _why.

It was Branson. Branson was the secret, unsuitable beau. And she knew he wouldn't be talked out of it. Because he had told her so, _'It would take more than a frown and a few feathers to make me take any action I hadn't freely chosen for myself…. And once I had so chosen, it would take more than the disapproval of a parent to stop me.'_

* * *

**Author's Chapter End Note: **Are you thinking something right now? If it can be told, please put it in that box you see right there. Thank you. :D


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: **_"Human beings are no longer born to their place in life, and chained down by an inexorable bond to the place they are born to, but are free to employ their faculties, and such favourable chances as offer, to achieve the lot which may appear to them most desirable." _―On the Subjection of Women, John Stuart Mill

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

For one moment after Robert handed her the wedding invitation, Violet allowed herself to inhabit the fantasyland of her granddaughter Sybil's imagining, in which an Earl, a peer of the realm, could _attend_ the wedding of his daughter, with said nuptials being "hosted" by the mother of the bridegroom, that same Earl's former servant. The Dowager Countess of Grantham smiled a very little, the heavy, expensive, cream-colored linen cardstock of the handsomely engraved invitation forgotten in her aged hands, her mind diverted by her own mental images.

Nanny had been Irish, her given name something that looked in writing unpronounceable but which Nanny said was pronounced something like "ee-fa." Not a name at all, as Violet understood names. Anyway, they all called her "Nanny."

Nanny had once described to her rapt young charge a wedding she had attended of some slightly-better-off relatives back in Ireland. The bride, Nanny said, had been dressed in St. Patrick's blue ('_Why blue?' _Violet wondered, then as now) and was crowned with a fragrant coronet of wildflowers. Various odd rituals courted good fortune and warded off bad luck, hunger, and the evil eye. Nanny said young men had come in covered in straw, and for some reason this was considered a good omen. Violet would have liked to see it. Straw men at a wedding, what an idea!

Reality supervened. Quite simply, Robert refused to go. That was why he was showing her the invitation. He wished to decline. For all of them.

Despite the fact that he himself only a bare month before had fully intended to host Miss Lavinia Swire's marriage to Cousin Matthew, and entertain _her _father Mr. Reginald Swire as an _honored guest_, Robert had the unmitigated gall to sit there and claim the reason he would not go to Dublin was because no man _attends_ the wedding of his own daughter. He hosts it. What he really meant was that he thought _he_ would be uncomfortable.

Violet's temper flared. She wasn't a fool, and she wasn't fooled. "Then write and tell them to come back here and be married from Downton," she snapped.

Her son made a rude noise.

"I thought you said you'd given in?" she reminded him, irritably.

"To allow them to _leave _with my blessing, no more."

Violet reminded herself that her son was the head of the family. "Robert," she sighed, "when something bad happens, there is no point in wishing it had not happened. The thing to do is to minimize the scandal."

"Really, Mama, can you honestly say you think it would 'minimize the scandal' for Sybil to come back here to be married? To the _chauffeur_?"

_Well, he had her there. _Violet was nothing if not a pragmatist. She tsked her resignation to the inevitable. "Well, you know," she put the helpless quaver of advanced age into her voice, "Cora is still so ill… and I really haven't felt all that well myself."

"Nor I," Robert agreed testily.

Violet looked at her son's set face, and silently cursed her granddaughter's fiancé for being right that women were still exposed to the 'subjection' of which John Stuart Mill had complained. "You won't stop the girls from going?" she asked her son.

"To be quite frank, I doubt I _could_ stop them."

Violet wondered if that were true, but nodded. She wished it weren't Branson Sybil was marrying. Any other man would have been preferable. Violet found she wanted to go, to attend the first wedding of one of her granddaughters. She quashed the feeling ruthlessly.

Of course, Robert had to make a big show, get them all together and talk about refusing to give countenance to 'this travesty of a marriage' by 'lowering himself to attend,' (no doubt lest his remaining daughters decide to run off with the hall boys or farm hands, no footmen currently being available), but ultimately, the hand that had inscribed the invitation to The Earl of Grantham and Family (it was neither Sybil's hand nor Branson's though it was accompanied by a letter from Sybil), had been both canny and wise: only one invitation had been sent to Yorkshire, because it was entirely Robert's decision which of them went, and whether any of them did.

Violet announced her 'decision' not to go. Cora, though her reluctance was palpable in the air, did the same. They knew instinctively that the price for Mary and Edith to be allowed to attend was that that Cora and Violet would have to stay behind with Robert. The elder Crawley women, by 'supporting' Robert's decision, blunted his need to fight against the bride's sisters' attendance. The Earl of Grantham and Family RSVP'd, but only for two. Violet was sorry, but it was all the help she had to give. Had the groom been any other man on the planet, Violet thought she could have borne the disappointment better.

* * *

In a way, it was fortunate that Cousin Matthew was prostrate with grief over Miss Swire, because if he hadn't been, Cousin Isobel might have undone all the Countesses' good work by insisting upon attending the wedding herself…. Poor Miss Swire.

They had nearly quarreled over Miss Swire. The Dowager and Branson. Well, if she were honest, they _had _quarreled, to the extent that any servant _can _safely quarrel with his employer. The Dowager had spent the day assisting Cora, the girls, and Miss Swire in addressing wedding invitations, and Violet had fulminated silently the entire time, because it was so idiotic and unsuitable. Miss Swire was all very well, but she was NOT suited to be the next Countess of Grantham, for pity's sake: anyone with half a brain could see that. And Matthew was still in love with Mary, and she with him. Mary would make an ideal Countess: she had been raised to it, and was the daughter of an Earl.

Violet could not say these things in front of Miss Swire… nor even in front of the girls truth be told, but she thought she would have an apoplexy if she did not express her feelings, and here was Branson to drive her home, and while he too had always seemed well disposed to the London girl, Violet doubted he'd be shocked, no matter what she said… when Violet had been a young girl she'd often brangled with her siblings just for fun, and she missed it… and if Branson gave her back more argument than she wanted, she knew well enough how to silence him. So she began, "What a sorry task, addressing invitations to Mr. Crawley's and Miss Swire's wedding," Violet sneered.

She went on at some length, taking pains to be provocative. In the past, Branson had sometimes felt moved to defend Miss Swire from her attacks, but today he took her remarks pretty well. Since she was purposely trying to get a rise out of him, his placid acceptance of her snide remarks irritated her. She goaded him mercilessly, referencing his socialist beliefs, and when this failed to have the desired effect even stooped to passing a remark about Miss Swire's looks. "Of course, I know you won't agree, Branson. You've always seemed to have such a kindness for the girl."

"It's not difficult, your ladyship. She's a sweet, kind young woman, without a mean bone in her body, and she obviously loves Mr. Crawley a great deal. He's a lucky man."

"She's insipid," Violet said. "Neither of them will be lucky when he tires of her. Wretched girl."

Branson had finally had enough. "I wish you would tell me what she's done wrong, milady!"

"She has affianced herself to a man far above her station."

"He's **not** above her station: he's a solicitor, just like Miss Swire's father."

"Mr. Crawley is the heir to an earldom: that raises his status far above the daughter of a mere solicitor."

"I seem to recall you telling me about the daughter of a baronet who married 'above' her," Branson reminded her.

_'Touché,' _Violet thought, but the chauffeur was still speaking.

"And you told me that it's 'never too far when a couple are well suited,' the Irishman finished.

"They aren't well suited!"

"Mr. Matthew seems to think they are, since he proposed to her!"

"Well, he's wrong, he and Mary are—"

"Lady Mary is engaged to Sir Richard Carlisle!" Branson interrupted her in an acid tone. "She and Mr. Matthew are _cousins, _and they will still be cousins after each of them is married to someone else, so you'll just have to get used to it, milady, and stop wishing for things that—"

"Hush, Branson!" He was giving her a good many more home truths than she wanted.

The chauffeur stopped speaking and swallowed. _What had gotten into him? _Well, she shouldn't go on like that against poor Miss Swire… still, "Milady, I—"

"Did you hear me tell you to hush?" The Dowager cut him off.

For an instant, ghostly fingers massaged the base of the chauffeur's neck, and he remembered the feel of the smooth shaft of an old man's bluish purple stick in his sweating palms. Branson sighed quietly and hushed.

The Dowager continued to speak, though her voice was mild. "It's not your place to call Mr. Crawley 'Mr. Matthew' as though you were an old family retainer thirty years his senior, nor is it your place to offer opinions on the status of your betters and what _I _will have to get used to."

The chauffeur of course said nothing: she had forbidden it. She moved slightly so she could see his face in the mirror. His mouth was pressed closed in a grim line, and mutiny glittered in the flashing sapphire of his eyes. The Dowager wasn't angry with him: she was wickedly glad he had taken the bait, and risen to her challenge so well. And he was right, of course, she would have to get used to poor Miss Swire. Violet sighed. They had arrived at the Dower House.

Branson got down to assist her to alight. He lowered his eyes momentarily in an obvious submission display, and the anger was gone from the blue orbs when he looked back up. "May I speak, please, your ladyship?" he asked humbly, more than half expecting to be denied.

"Why?" she asked noncommittally.

"Because I'd like to apol—"

"You'd like to be so impertinent as to force me to take notice of you by apologizing?" she suggested.

He blushed. "Please, your ladys—"

"Branson, you haven't offended me."

"But—"

"Yet," she said significantly. Seeing the contrition in his eyes, she took pity on him. "Branson, if you should ever offend me, I promise you, I will tell you in no uncertain terms."

Branson simultaneously looked down again, blushed, bit his lower lip, and gave a chuff of laughter which sounded at once relieved and abashed.

"And you came warranted not to take offense at being told to hush." The chauffeur looked up at her, brows contracting in surprise, as she continued, "so I wonder if _I_ have perhaps offended _you_?"

He hesitated.

"The truth," she insisted.

He swallowed. "Not by telling me to hush."

"By speaking against Miss Swire." It wasn't a question.

He sighed. "She hasn't done anything wrong, milady, except to fall in love with someone who doesn't suit you."

"A capital crime in and of itself," Violet retorted drily.

Branson actually laughed. _Miss Swire wasn't the only one guilty of it. _

"I'm going in the house," the Dowager told her servant.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

The chauffeur smiled and shook his head. "In truth, your ladyship, I don't know."

* * *

And now Miss Swire was dead. And Branson was gone. And Sybil was gone with him. The Dowager wished all three of them to Perdition.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: ** "_There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love." _—Washington Irving

**Disclaimer: ** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

To the Dowager Countess of Grantham's way of thinking, the supreme irony was that her granddaughter Sybil, who might in the ordinary way of thinking be considered to have contracted a marriage _beyond the pale_, had in actual fact chosen to marry and to make her life well _within _the Pale.

Well, that was all water under the bridge now. Violet had set the matter of her youngest granddaughter and her husband aside, because she could do nothing about it, in favor of awaiting and, where possible assisting, events.

Mary continued engaged to (though mercifully not yet setting a date certain for execution with) Sir Richard Carlisle, and Matthew struggled to choose life after many months of wallowing in guilt over the death of his late fiancée Miss Lavinia Swire.

Edith had begun to talk about Sir Anthony Strallan again. Well, it wasn't brilliant, but a man was a man after all, and Strallan was a knight, and had a reasonable amount of wealth. Locksley was a fine home, and it was nearby. Edith would be comfortable, and she seemed genuinely to like Sir Anthony, so Violet determined to give her middle granddaughter all the help she had to give.

* * *

Violet's mother had been fond of saying that the Irish made the best servants because they were 'hardworking, cheap, and grateful not to still be starving to death at home.'

_Nanny first arrived at Violet's house well past the children's bedtime. Violet, who had snuck out of bed in favor of sitting in the window seat in order to resume playing with her favorite doll, heard noises in the hall and scrambled back into bed and under the covers, so that whoever was coming in might think she had been all this time asleep as all good little girls should be at this hour. _

_"This is where you'll sleep, and where you'll work," Mama said in a sharp whisper, eager to make her point, but less eager to wake the sleeping denizens of the nursery. "You'll see that the children are cared for, clean, and fed. You'll sleep here in the nursery, and take your meals here with the children as well. If you break anything, the cost will be taken out of your wages, and if I have the least trouble with you, you'll be thrown out of here without a reference to starve. Is that clear?" _

_The response was a whisper so low Violet barely heard it: "Yes, milady." _

_"Very well. Get to bed now. The children rise at 7:30 and have their breakfast at 8:00 o'clock sharp. Cook will have it ready for you, but you'll be the one to fetch it from the kitchen. Do you remember how to get there?" _

_"Yes, milady," the soft voice said again. _

_Violet wondered why Mama was so angry. The old Nanny, who'd been sent away in disgrace, had often made Mama angry, but surely this new Nanny couldn't have done anything bad yet? _

_The door slammed and after several minutes of silence Violet could hear sobbing. She racked her six year old brain for some way to help. Then she thought of something. She slid quietly out of bed and over to her chest of drawers, retrieving something she'd been saving in case of need. She tiptoed over to Nanny's bed. Yes, it was definitely this new Nanny who was crying. Her dark hair was dry-looking and unkempt, her skin so pale it looked translucent, and she was painfully thin, almost skeletal. _

_Violet began to be a little afraid, especially when she remembered that her old Nanny had sometimes punished her for getting up after she was supposed to be in bed. But it was too late now, new Nanny had raised her head, and watery dark eyes were gazing at Violet out of a pale freckled face that was streaked with tears. _

_Violet, making believe she was brave and strong, held out the treasure in her hand, and said in a stage whisper, "Don't worry, Nanny: I won't let you starve." _

_Aoife stared. Despite her good fortune in obtaining this position, she was homesick, tired, hungry, lonely, and deeply terrified of her new mistress. Bright moonlight shot faint beams of light off the little girl's fair hair, as if the child were a cherub sent to comfort her. The exhausted Irish girl held out her hands, and the angel child placed something in them. Aoife looked wonderingly at what she'd been given. _

_It was a dusty and battered arrowroot biscuit, hoarded from some long past nursery tea. "'For I was hungry, and you gave me to eat.'" Nanny quoted in amused surprise. She chuckled and leaned close to kiss the child's rounded, well-fed cheek. "Thank you, a leanbh. May God increase your store." She tried to break the biscuit in half so she could share it with her benefactress, but it was as hard as stone. "If only we had some tea (she pronounced it 'tay') or even some water…"_

_"There's water there, Nanny." Violet pointed to the beside table. What the Irish girl had supposed to be an oil lamp proved, on closer inspection, to be a glass carafe with a little glass cup inverted over the top. Nanny lifted Violet onto her lap, then handed her the cup. The Irish girl filled the glass carefully from the carafe, only then noticing the label reading 'Drink Me' etched into the glass. Baffled, the Irish girl shook her head, then set down the carafe, and dunked the end of the biscuit into the water. She offered the soggy biscuit end to Violet, who bit off a piece, dunked it again, then handed it back to Nanny. Nanny bit off the next part, dunked the biscuit, and offered it again to the child. They continued like that, taking little bites each in turn, turn and turn about, until they had consumed their treat completely. And somehow that one soggy, battered biscuit was the sweetest, most heartening, and most nourishing of foods. _

* * *

Sybil had kept up a dutiful correspondence with her grandmother. She was happy in her new life, she had found a job, loved their little flat, and told Violet all the little things she thought would interest the old woman. She did not mention any plans to come to Downton, nor did she discuss the possibility of any of the Crawleys coming to Dublin. As near as Violet could tell, the girl had accepted that they were now worlds apart. Sybil sent her love. Violet missed the girl.

"Cora," Violet asked. "Do you think Sybil might come home for Christmas?"

"She hasn't mentioned it," her daughter-in-law told her. "Do you think Robert would allow it?"

Violet didn't know.

* * *

_As the next summer approached, Grandda wrote again to Mam. _

_Mam read the letter silently, and looked consideringly at the older two of the three sons still at home. Seth and the girls had already left the table, but Tommy and Kiaran already had the appetites of adult men. They would stay at the table until they'd consumed everything edible that was on offer. _

_"How's Tommy working out at the garage?" Mam asked the older boy. _

_Kiaran's lips curved reluctantly. "Very well. He's a fair little grease monkey, our Tommy: quick, willing, and works hard. Everyone likes him. I think there's plenty of work for him with us as long as he wants it." _

_Tom beamed at his older brother, warmth blossoming in the younger boy's chest. Such open praise from Kiaran was rare and sweet. _

_Seeing the younger boy's smile of pleasure, Mam smiled as well. "You make a mother proud," she told him, causing his smile to swell into a full blown grin. _

_Her next sentence killed it. "We'll leave Tommy at the garage with you this summer then, and send Seth to the old man's farm this time." _

* * *

"Robert," Violet asked her son. "You believe that family should be together at Christmas, don't you?"

"Mama, if this is—"

"Just answer my question."

"As a general rule, yes."

"So I take it you'll let Sybil come home for Christmas?"

"This isn't her home anymore. Her home is in Dublin."

Violet waved this objection away. "Dublin, Downton, her family is here. Will you allow her to come to Downton for Christmas?"

"I'll make that decision when she asks to come, Mama, and not before."

* * *

_Once Mam had gone out, Kiaran sought out his brother. It was as bad as he'd thought. "If Mam catches you crying, Tommy, there'll be the devil to pay." _

_"I know it," the younger boy agreed miserably. He dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. Kiaran wasn't sure if his brother were trying to wipe away his tears, press them back into his eyes, or blind himself. _

_"I thought you said Grandda told you he wanted you to come back?" _

_Tom sighed and lowered one hand to his mouth, letting the other fall to his lap. "I think I must have misunderstood him, Kiaran." More of the shameful tears streamed down his cheeks. Tom wiped them away with his palms. _

_"What exactly did he tell you, Tommy?" _

_Tom drew and released several shuddering breaths before he answered. "He said he hoped Mam would be able to spare one of us again next year." _

_"And you assumed it would be you?" _

_Tom's hand was pressed against his mouth, but he nodded, eyes streaming, and nose starting to run. He removed his hand from his mouth long enough to say, "I'm sorry I'm so selfish, Kiaran: I don't mean to be!" Tom shook with the force of his sobs, his disappointment, and his shame. "I don't mean to be such a baby about it, and I don't want to keep Seth from having a chance to go, I swear!" The blue eyes begged silently, filled with need, overflowing with sorrow and with tears. _

_"Come here, Tommy," Kiaran ordered, gruffly gentle. He pulled his distraught brother into his arms, and rubbed his back and stroked his hair, until the storm of grief had spent itself, and Tom, empty of tears, at last lay quiet against his chest. _


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: ** _"__May I wish for all men's happiness and envy none."_ –from the Prayer of Eusebius, 3rd century

***-* Warning: **This story is a work of historical fiction, set a century in the past, when societal norms regarding corporal punishment were very different from what they are today. ***-***

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. I was not intending to handle this issue just now, nor in just this way, but when reviewers requested/suggested it, it dawned on me that this is indeed an optimal time to address this topic… I guess I should say this is a 'family' chapter, as it contains little in the way of humor.

For anyone especially interested in such matters, an encounter between Mam and a weeping _adult_ Tom may be found in my Sybil/Branson marriage story **Dublin Downton Drumgoole** Chapter 4.

**Disclaimer: ** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Sybil did not ask to come for Christmas, but by the time the holiday house party (including the Servants' Ball) was over, Mary and Matthew were engaged. Surely Sybil and Branson would come to Downton for the wedding. After all, Mary had gone to Dublin for theirs.

_Tom went to confession to place his imperishable envy of Seth's upcoming trip before God. The priest, an elderly man named Father Benedict, listened to his story, and said, mildly, "You love your grandfather?" _

_"Yes, Father." _

_You enjoyed spending time with him at his farm?" _

_"Very much."_

_"And do you love your brother?" _

_"Of course, Father." _

_"Do you enjoy spending time with him?"_

_There was a short pause, then, "Most of the time, I do."_

_The priest, too, paused for thought. Tommy was a grawver boy, and what he was feeling was only only natural… _

_"Lad, when a man is grown, he can't always have things his own way—"_

_Not like when he's a boy, Tom thought sarcastically, but was too polite to say._

_"But that doesn't mean we shouldn't be happy when good things happen to others, does it?" _

_"No, Father."_

_"When we've finished, and you've done your penance, I want to _thank _God for choosing to have your brother go to the farm this summer instead of you. Can you do that?" _

_Tom's head hurt, and his heart ached. The priest waited patiently for his answer. "Yes, Father." _

_"And when you go home, I want you to talk to your brother, tell him how much you love your grandfather, how much you enjoyed your time with him, and how glad you are that he gets to go this year. Will you do that for me?" _

_ "I will."_

_Tom made his Act of Contrition and received absolution, then exited the confessional box. He went to the Lady Chapel, dropped money in the box, and lit a candle for Seth, and another for Grandda. The chapel was empty, so he knelt there at the altar to make his penance. Partway through, the little priest slipped him a paper on which was written a special prayer he had told Tom he was to say. When Tom had finished saying the prayers he knew by heart he looked this new prayer over. When he had read it, he felt a wave of despair so intense, he almost got up and went back into the confessional to confess this new 'sin': he did not want to ask the Lord to make him wish to be loved by Jesus alone._

_Tom loved his Saviour, he did! But he also needed to love someone he could touch, and who could touch him. He had already shifted his weight from his knees onto his hands on the prayer rail in preparation to rise, when he felt a hand on the base of his neck. _

_Tom looked up to see the little priest standing next to him. "What is asked of you isn't easy, lad. But just because a thing isn't easy, doesn't mean it isn't right. We fail many times; the Lord will not despise our efforts as long as we try." _

_Tom, comforted more by the priest's touch than by his words (which, to be frank, he did not fully understand), nodded. "Thank you, Father," he said._

* * *

"Papa," Mary said, coming into the library shortly before the dressing gong.

"Yes, my dear?" Robert had risen from his desk and smiled at his daughter. He was _so _glad Mary and Matthew had settled things! To welcome Matthew as a true son as well as the heir of Downton filled him with joy. Truly, Matthew was the son he'd never had, and no man could wish for a better. If only Sybil could have found a man like Matthew...

"We're starting on the invitations soon—"

"Are you?"

"And I'm going to invite Sybil and Tom."

There was silence between them for a few moments, then, "I don't think—"

"Papa."

Robert looked at his daughter enquiringly.

"I know you're still unhappy with them, but after all, as you keep saying, you didn't quarrel with them, you gave them permission to marry, and they are part of the family. I want my sister here for my wedding, and my brother-in-law as well."

"What does Matthew say?"

"He says since I'm the one writing out the invitations, I can invite anyone I wish."

Robert was silent.

"Papa, it's time. If not now, when?"

Robert sighed. "Fine."

"Papa?"

Her father shrugged. "Do it, then, invite them."

His oldest daughter flew into his arms, and kissed his cheek, then pulled back to smile at him. "Thank you, Papa! Thank you so much!"

_Seth had not yet been told that he would be the one to visit Grandda this year, but Tom obeyed Father Benedict's instructions as far as speaking to the younger boy about Grandda and the farm, stressing those things he thought Seth might enjoy most. He figured he could say the rest of what the priest wanted after Seth knew he was going. _

_Seth looked at his older brother askance. "You _love_ the old man, do you?" _

_Tom nodded. "You would, too." _

_"Like Da loved him?" Seth probed. _

_Tom was confused. "I guess so_." _Though in truth, many of Da's stories about Grandda had featured him as a sort of bogeyman useful for frightening the boys into obeying._

_ "Da _left_ Grandda, Tommy. And so did you." _

_Tom wondered what he meant by that, but couldn't ask because his younger brother had fled the room._

* * *

Cora, Mary, and Violet had rejoiced that Robert had given in, but their triumph was short-lived. Sybil and her husband had sent their regrets. They were sorry, and they wished Mary and Matthew well, but they could not afford to make the trip.

_When Mam broke the good news to Seth, she expected him to be happy. Certainly, he had driven them all mad the year before with his jealousy of Tommy's going; that was why she had thought of sending him this year. It seemed only fair. Yet, for some reason, now that he was the fortunate one, the younger boy seemed angry. When Tommy told his brother how glad he was for him, Seth snapped, "I bet you are!" _

_Kiaran and Mam both looked at Tommy. _

_Tommy looked shocked. "I _am_ glad." _

_"No doubt. You're glad to stay here with your friends, while I get sent to the back of beyond! Sorry to disappoint you: I'm not going!" He looked wildly at his mother. "You can't make me go there: I'll just run away if you do!" Suiting his actions to his words, the youngest Branson boy ran out of the room. _

_Mam looked at Tommy suspiciously. "What did you say to him about Grandda and the farm?"_

_Tom's heart started to race. He glanced at Kiaran, then back at Mam. "Nothing! I said I liked it there—" _

_"So much that you thought you'd convince him he didn't want to go so I'd send you instead? I would be deeply ashamed to have borne a son who was as selfish as that." _

_Tommy looked at his older brother. Had Kiaran told her how jealous he was? How selfish?_

_Kiaran shook his head. He hadn't said anything to Mam. _

_Tom looked back at his mother. Brenna was watching her son's face narrowly. She had seldom seen Tommy look as guilty as he looked right now. Apparently, she had misjudged the situation between himself and his grandfather. He had acted a little oddly on his return to Dublin, and she had supposed he didn't really like it at the farm, but was too polite to say so. Then she saw something that wiped that sympathetic reflection clean out of her head. She said, "__Tommy, why are you crying?"_

_Panic flashed in the watery blue eyes. Tom shot another glance over at Kiaran, then looked back desperately at Mam. He licked his lips, then looked down at the kitchen table. "Who says I'm crying?"_

_Mam, sitting next to him, reached a hand over to his cheek, then moved her hand away from his face again so he could see the water on her fingertips. "You say it."_

_Tom looked up at her pleadingly. She watched another tear run down his cheek to replace the one she'd wiped away. She was now so angry she could let her voice out only in a whisper, lest she shout the house down. "Do you remember what happened the last time you started bawling like a baby?"_

_Did he _**_remember _**_that she'd switched his legs for crying? God. He'd remember it until the day he died. __He couldn't answer. He felt another tear run down his face. He struggled to breathe. __Through a fog of misery, Tom heard Kiaran's voice saying softly, "Come on, Mam. Don't."_

_"No, Kiaran, I've had enough! Your Da said he'd grow out of it, but he's thirteen years old! Practically a man grown already, and still sniveling like an infant! I will not have it even one minute more!" She addressed Tom again. "Stand up."_

_He swallowed and obeyed. She walked away for a moment, but was back almost instantly. With the switch. NO. Please. Not again. Please, Mam, please don't. I'm sorry. I'm trying not to cry...Please. He didn't dare say any of that; he felt tears streaming down his face. Please. I'm sorry. Please don't. _

_"Unbutton your trouser cuffs," she ordered._

_Tom bent silently to obey her. His trembling fingers struggled with the button at his left knee. He managed to unfasten it, and felt cool air hit his left calf and shin as the long stocking, freed from the garter-like band of fabric, fell unimpeded to his left instep. _

_Kiaran was still trying, "Mam, there's no need to—"_

_"There's every need!" Tom turned his attention to the right knee, only too conscious of the need to hurry. He couldn't really help himself now, he knew; he'd been finished the moment she saw his tears, but he could still make things a lot worse by any action or omission she perceived as either evasion or defiance. That was why he couldn't beg. Fortunately, she was still distracted by his older brother: "How many sons have you raised, Kiaran?"_

_Kiaran was silent, since the answer was '__none.'_

_"Well, I've raised six before him, including you, and not a single one of you cried like he does past the age of six! And Seth doesn't either!"_

_Tom finally got the right button free, but his stocking remained up. He pushed it down to his ankle without waiting for her to tell him to do it, since he knew from bitter experience that she would want her stick to fall on his bare skin and not on his thick woolen stocking. Why did he even want to go back to Grandda's? Was this worth it? Not daring to delay any longer, Tom stood upright and listened to Kiaran's valiant defense of him. He wondered whether it would make things better or worse. Worse, he'd guess. Please, Mam. Please. Don't. _

_"Not everyone is the same, Mam, and Da and Liam always said—"_

_"Your Da is dead. And Liam's not here. So I'll thank you to leave raising my son to me!" She saw she had silenced her older son, but continued anyway. "And what's the result of all this indulgence been? He wants to go to the farm again, but instead of telling me that, he's decided to tell Seth God only knows what about the place in an effort to get Seth to refuse to go, so we'll send him again instead!"_

_This was too much even for Tom. "Mam, I swear, I never—"_

_"That isn't true, Mam! He doesn't want to go back there! He __wants _**me** to go! " Seth was back. "Tommy's never said anything to me except how much _fun_ it will be, and what a _good time_ I'll have. But I'm not _**blind**_, Mam! I saw the bruises he had when got home. Here, here, here, here, here, and here!" He touched various parts of his anatomy, presumably places where he'd seen bruises on his brother. 

_Kiaran made a sound of confirmation: the three shared a room, he too had seen the livid bruises on Tom's arms, rib cage and thighs. _

_Seth was still shouting: "I'm not going there so that old man can beat me the way he beat Tommy and Da! And you can't make me! I'll never go there, I don't care what you say!"_

* * *

Violet consulted with Cora and Isobel. They agreed with her that Sybil should come to the wedding, and Branson with her. Isobel said she thought she would send them the money.

"Please don't," Cora said. "Robert's expressly forbidden it: he'd be furious."

Trust her son to pull like a child against the hand of fate, Violet thought. It was ridiculous to expect a working class couple like Sybil and Branson to be able to afford to pick up and travel across the water and across country at the drop of a hat.

No, that wasn't right: it wasn't that Robert expected them to be able to do it; he expected (and hoped) they _couldn't_. And that's why he'd forbidden his wife and daughters to send them travel money. Just as he'd given his "blessing" and then taken it back, even shaken Branson's hand, as if he respected the former chauffeur as a man (she'd seen them shake hands herself), then taken that respect back, so he'd given permission for them to be invited to the wedding, but then taken that implied permission for them to come to Downton back by forbidding his womenfolk to help them pay for the trip.

'He's forbidden it?' Violet thought. 'Well, then, it's up to me, isn't it?'

_Faolan sat on the rock in the bright moonlight waiting impatiently for his friend. 'Where _is _he?' _

_This was what came of making friends, not to speak of secret midnight plans, with city boys. What if Tom had gotten hurt? It was a long ride from the Bransons' place to here… God knew Faolon coveted the white mule, and wanted to ride her, but now… he had to admit he was worried. This had been a stupid idea. _

_The truth was, he wasn't sure now what it was best to do. He could go home and sneak back into bed, but if Tommy was lying hurt out there somewhere, he could _die… _Maybe the Dublin boy had decided at the last minute not to go through with it. Faolon didn't know Tom Branson that well, but… he didn't seem like a boy who'd make a promise and not keep it. _

_The country boy strained to see in the moonlit distance. "Come on, Tom, get here!"_

* * *

They were coming. Violet had been a little afraid that Branson might be too proud to accept help. Apparently not. Violet was grateful. It would have been too irritating to have actually sent them boat fare and then not had them come.

_When Tom at last arrived at the rendezvous, it was all too clear what had kept him. In addition to the white mule walking beside him, the Dublin boy was accompanied by his grandfather, shillelagh in hand. _

_"I'm afraid you lads won't be riding tonight," the old man informed him. _

_Faolon nodded. "I understand, sir. Thank you for coming out here with him. I was getting worried."_

_"Did you two fools have a plan for what to do if one or the other of you failed to show up?" _

_Faolon shook his head. _

_"I don't really need to tell you how unbelievably stupid and dangerous this was, do I?" _

_"No, sir, you don't… can I ask what happened?"_

_"The mule, naturally, objected to going out in the middle of the night, having a deal more sense in her head than either of you boys!" The boys looked at each other for a moment, then simultaneously looked away again._

_"Mr. Branson, can I ask you not to tell my Da?"_

_"You should tell him."_

_"I suppose I should, but I'd rather not…He'll be really angry, Mr. Branson... but if you tell him, and I haven't, it's going to be a lot worse… A LOT worse. Please don't tell him."_

_Grandda considered, then said, "I'm going to tell him on Sunday, after mass."_

_Faolon sighed, but nodded in resignation. "He'll already know about it when you do, sir...and he'll already have punished me." _

_Old Man Branson looked at his grandson, then back at his neighbor. "Are you going to blame Tom for this?" _

_Faolon looked at his friend again, then shook his head. "It's as much my fault as his… I'm sure he'd have avoided getting caught if he could have." _

_"No doubt," the elder Branson said, drily. _

_Tom met Faolon's eyes. "I'm sorry." He hadn't meant to get Faolon in trouble. He'd only wanted... "I'm truly sorry, Faolon."_

_"Not yet you're not," the old man contradicted him. Tom shot an anxious glance the old man's way, but Grandda wasn't looking at him. _

_"It's all right," Tom's friend told him. "I'll see you at mass." _

_The two Bransons and the mule had made most of the journey to Faolon's rock and back in grim silence, but as they drew within a half mile of home, Grandda spoke: __"Surely you aren't going to pretend not to know that you need permission to ride the mule?"_

_Tom shook his head. He wasn't going to pretend it. He knew._

_"And I_ know_ you aren't going to claim to believe you're allowed to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night?"_

_Obviously not. The fact that he had chosen to 'sneak' out implied... he suddenly remembered that one of the differences between a venial and a mortal sin was that a mortal sin was 'knowing' and 'willful.' Like this had been. Tom bit his lip, and opened his mouth as though he were going to say something, but then didn't. _

_"What?" Grandda snapped. _

_It was too dangerous. It was stupid. "Nothing." Tom whispered. _

_"Tell me what you were going to say," the old man demanded. _

_It didn't matter what he said. Or maybe it did. Tom thought about how offensive the truth was going to sound, and tried to think of a satisfactory lie. He couldn't think of anything though... and probably lying to the old man was not going to make things better. He was waiting for an answer. Tom took a deep breath and let it out. The truth. The truth will set you free. "I was going to say 'I promise it'll never happen again.'" The very thought made him ashamed. It shouldn't have happened this time. It was a mistake to say; it would only make the old man angrier._

_"I wish I believed that." Tom could hear the disappointment in the old man's voice. "I trusted you." And Tom had thrown the old man's trust back in his face. He was sorry. He was so sorry. But it was too late. It was done, and he couldn't undo it. _

_"I'm sorry, Grandda. Truly. I'm sorry. Please believe me." _

_They had stopped walking and faced each other, the angry eyes of the old man meeting the boy's regretful blue. The mule ignored them, having found a tuft of grass to munch on while she waited._

_"I believe you're sorry you got caught. Sorry you're going to be punished." _

_"No," Tom said. "I mean, yes, I am sorry about those things. But that isn't what I meant. I meant... I meant, I'm sorry I did it. I love you, and I'm sorry you can't trust me now." Tears brimmed in the blue eyes, but the old man likely didn't see them in the dim light. _

_"Do you want it here," Grandda asked, "or back at the house?" _

_He didn't want it at all. Deserved it, yes. Wanted it, no. But back at the house?! So they could wake everyone up? "Here," Tom breathed. _

_The word had barely cleared his lips before pain exploded against his arm. _


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: ** This is for Mary, who wished to know.

***-* Warning: **This story is a work of historical fiction, set a century in the past, when societal norms regarding corporal punishment were very different from what they are today. ***-***

**Disclaimer: ** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Mam's mouth quirked up at one corner into her characteristic not-really-amused T-shaped smile. "You are a fool, Seth. Check your own legs, boyo. You seem to be forgetting you have bruises, too." She flourished the switch in her hand, presumably for purposes of dramatic emphasis. "From me."

"That's different," Seth said.

Mam looked at Tommy, standing to be corrected by the table, lower legs bared for her stick. His shins and calves bore testament to her previous attempt to 'cure' him of lacrimation, though the long, narrow bruises had faded over the past week to ghostly pale green fingers. She had to admit, as a remedy, it did not seem to have been particularly efficacious. "Did your grandfather beat you, Tommy?"

"Yes, he did," Tom admitted readily. He had regained his composure during Seth's outburst, his tone now calm and matter-of-fact, untroubled apparently by whatever had transpired between himself and the old man.

"But you'd still like to visit him again this summer?"

"Very much." _Not that it will be allowed._

"So you don't think it's different?"

"No, I agree with Seth. It _is_ different."

"How's that?" Mam asked.

Tom's mouth quirked up into a T of its own, and he treated his mother to the first truly adult look she'd ever seen from him. "You use a more flexible stick."

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Mam laughed. For a moment, she and Tom smiled at each other with an identical humour, and Kiaran was struck by how alike the two looked. Then Mam turned his way.

"Well, Kiaran," Mam told him. "Tommy went last year, and Seth won't go. So it's down to you. Would you like to visit your Grandda at his farm for the summer, lad?"

Kiaran looked surprised. "I can't go to Galway, Mam, I'm working at the garage full-time now. Let Tommy go."

Tom was touched, but none of them was going, he knew. He was working at the garage, too, after all, and money was money. Da was dead, and they all needed to do their part. He shifted a little uncomfortably, and the drag of his stocking on the floor reminded him that Mam was going to switch him. He stared up at the corner of the ceiling as Will had taught him to do until he felt the next approaching tide of tears recede. Mercifully, no more had fallen. Which would no doubt be a great satisfaction to him when he was dabbing liniment on the newest crop of welts…

Mam came back over to Tom, and put up a hand to grasp his chin. He let her handle him without flinching, and she angled his face gently towards the light. Looking at the tracks of his tears, he supposed. He wondered how many more times this was going to happen before he learned to control himself. This was only the second time. Would there be a third? A fourth? A tenth? Was she going to switch him _every_ time he cried? Didn't she ever cry? He tried to think if he'd ever seen her do so. No, he hadn't. Wait, yes, he had. When Da died. They all cried then. When Brigid died. His brow creased. Was it only acceptable to cry when someone was dead?

Tom met his mother's eyes. She was looking right at him, her face only inches away, the golden brown, green, and blue patchwork of her hazel eyes considering him thoughtfully. She still held his chin. She still held the switch. He was ready. He wondered what she was waiting for. She let go of him and stepped back. The switch whistled as she swung it through the air: a test swing.

There was a long pause. Kiaran, of all people, found himself thinking, _'St. Monica, please intercede for our Tommy…'_

Tommy looked down at the floor. _Do it already._ He sighed. He would get used to it: the price to be paid for failing to control himself. He could no longer_ 'go cry to your Da'_ as she used to tell him. Now there was only Mam. He would have to learn; he would have to try. And keep trying. 'We fail many times,' the priest had said. 'God will not despise our efforts as long as we try.' He knew it was his failure to control himself Mam despised, not him.

"Mam?" Tom said quietly.

"Yes, what is it?"

"I love you."

She was silent a moment. "Are you telling me that because you hope it will make me change my mind about punishing you?"

"No," he said. "I know it won't. I just…" he looked up at her. "I just wanted you to know."

Mam blew out a sigh. "I love you, too." She ran her tongue over her teeth. "All right, Tommy, pull up your stockings, button your cuffs, and go wash your face."

His face went slack from shock and relief. Then his arms were around her in a bear hug. "Thank you," he whispered. He bent, pulled up his stockings, rebuttoned his trouser cuffs over them, and left hurriedly to wash his face, before she could change her mind.

Mam put away the switch and got an envelope from her desk. She handed it to Kiaran. It was Grandda's letter, asking that she send Tommy back to him, such a good, lauchy, broth of a boy; or, if Tom said he didn't want to come, or if Brenna couldn't spare him, perhaps one of the others.

Kiaran thought, 'So Tommy was right, the old man does want him back,' but what he said was, "And can you spare him, Mam? He could earn good money at the garage this summer."

"He has his whole life to work, Kiaran. That old man won't live forever. Anyhow, there's always money. There isn't always love."

Tommy was back, face scrubbed clean. Mam said, "Well, lad, what do you think you'll need to take with you to Galway?"


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: ** "_When a gentleman stops to speak to a lady of his acquaintance in the street, he takes his hat off with his left hand, leaving his right free to shake hands, or he takes it off with his right and transfers it to his left…There is no rudeness greater than for him to stand talking to a lady with his hat on…_

**_THE "CUT DIRECT" _**_ For one person to look directly at another and not acknowledge the other's bow is such a breach of civility that only an unforgivable misdemeanor can warrant the rebuke… It is a direct stare of blank refusal, and is not only insulting to its victim but embarrassing to every witness." –_Emily Post. Etiquette. 1922. Chapter IV. Salutations of Courtesy

**Disclaimer: ** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Before the letter had arrived, it had been settled. Not happily, but settled.

"I've disappointed you," Tom said sadly. "I'm sorry. Are you sure you don't want to—"

"I'm sure."

He had tried. God knew he had tried. _She _could go, if she wished. They could afford that. He looked down at his hands, folded uselessly in his lap.

"I would disappoint myself," Sybil told him, "If I went back there without you."

* * *

The letter changed everything.

"We're going," Sybil said.

Tom looked at the letter, at the money, at the unfamiliar handwriting. "We don't know where this money came from," he objected quietly. "Or why." Friend or foe?

"Where do you think it came from, darling? It came from my family. Hopefully from Papa. But even if it came from Satan himself, _we are going. _As for why, it's so we can attend Mary and Matthew's wedding, and that is what we are going to do."

Tom didn't argue, he couldn't, but he wondered why, if Lord Grantham had sent it, he chose to conceal the fact from them.

* * *

Mam was unsympathetic. "I thought you _wanted _to go, Tommy?"

"I do."

"Then why aren't you happy?"

"Where did that money come from, Mam?"

"What do you mean? It came from Sybil's family, obviously."

"Yes, but who? And why?"

"What difference does it make?"

"It—"

"Don't be such an ingrate—"

"But I—"

"You what?"

Her son swallowed. "I'm afraid."

She considered. "You think Lord Grantham is still angry, and you're afraid to face him?"

Tom nodded.

"No problem. If he's angry with you, you'll just do what you always do in these situations."

"And what is that?"

"Go back to Downton, hand him the stick, and tell him you love him."

Tom's let out a chuff of air. "Like in that opera song Pegeen used to sing? _'Starò qui come agnellina le tue botte ad aspettar'_?"

"Exactly!" Mam agreed brightly.

Despite himself, Tom laughed.

* * *

Tom had delivered many people to Downton Abbey reception committees "up top," but this was the first time he had ever been one of the guests so received. He removed his right glove after handing Sybil out of the car, so he would not be shaking Lady Grantham's bare hand with his glove, and removed his hat as well, so he would not be 'standing talking to a lady with his hat on.'

Lord Grantham had not sent the money. The first thing Sybil did was ask him. His reply? "What money?" It wasn't a good sign.

"Hello, _Tom_," Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham, smiled at her son-in-law, "Welcome to Downton." She offered her hand to shake.

He shook his mother-in-law's hand, and in return for her friendliness, offered the plain, unvarnished truth: "I hope I am welcome, your ladyship," he confided softly. He heard Lady Mary's voice saying "Of course," at the same time he caught Lord Grantham's eye. Tom nodded in greeting. Lord Grantham looked away. And then turned and went inside. The cut direct.

Tom thought of Father Mark, the priest in Ripon when he and Sybil left, saying that his penance for concealing his engagement to Sybil (for daring to love her in the first place) would be to endure Lord Grantham's anger… possibly forever.

Meanwhile, Lady Mary was telling an incredibly tall footman to take the luggage, and Lady Edith was saying there was tea in the library.

Seeing Sybil with her family, with her mother, how happy she was, he was so grateful they'd been able to come, but… it was going to be so hard.

Tom caught Mr. Carson's eye as the others went inside, and stopped. "Hello, Mr. Carson," he said. Carson did not speak, but unlike his master, he nodded.

It was going to be very hard.

Defeated, Tom followed his wife and her family into the house.

* * *

Smithers was late waking the Dowager Countess to dress for dinner. She _said _she was doing some invisible mending and got caught up in her work. Violet had no doubt the mending was invisible. Read nonexistent. More likely she was caught up in reading one of those romantic novels.

Violet waved off her maid's apologies and hurried. She was late arriving in the drawing room, yet, even so, when she arrived, Cora was entertaining a commercial traveler before the family went in to dinner. Violet wondered what the young man was selling. Typewriters? Encyclopedia? He did not seem to have any products with him. Insurance, it must be. The Man from the Prudential, no doubt.

But why was he here now? What had Carson been thinking to let him in? Violet let some of her ire into her voice. "What have we here?"

"Granny!" Sybil was flying over to greet her.

The commercial traveler turned her way, and Violet saw his face. "Branson," she said in surprise.

"Milady," he greeted her. He seemed grim. Why wasn't he in evening dress?

Carson had entered the Drawing Room. "Milady, dinner is served."


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note:** _"No furniture is so charming as books, even if you never open them or read a single word."_ ― Sydney Smith

**Disclaimer: ** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Tom Branson loved the library. It was the room he knew best upstairs, the only one where he had spent any appreciable amount of time. He smiled as he entered; it was like coming home. He turned automatically to his favorite shelf. Were there new friends there? Lord Grantham was always buying books, and he knew what Branson liked.

Tom's wife tugged on his hand. "Sit here, darling," she said.

_Sit? In here? _He couldn't sit in the li— Reality crashed into him. He wasn't a favored servant anymore. They expected him to sit down, drink tea, mind his manners, and not get up to look at the books he no longer had permission to borrow. _Jesus wept! _He wished fervently that they were having tea in _any _room but this one. Any room at all. He looked up at the very top of the bookcase across from him, at the decorative finial, at the place where the top of the wall met the ceiling. He waited until his eyes cleared, then looked back down at his wife. She smiled encouragingly, and he tried to beam bravely back. It didn't matter about the books. He could do this.

It was decided that Mary, as the bride-to-be, would pour.

"So you can practice 'being mother,'" Tom quipped, without thinking. Four sets of Crawley eyes turned to him. Tom blinked at their non-comprehension.

"It's what we say in Ireland," Sybil explained when her husband failed to. "The person who pours the tea is said to 'be mother,' and just as here we'd said, 'shall I pour?' at home we'd say 'shall I _be mother_?'"

Tom's lips curved happily at hearing Sybil refer to Ireland as 'home.' The three other women nodded their understanding of the usage.

Lord Grantham actually spoke: "Indeed?" he drawled, acidly. "How quaint." The older man looked away. Tom let it pass.

The Crawley women carried the burden of the conversation. They made an effort to include remarks to Tom, but the obviousness of their efforts made it awkward, as did the glowering presence of Lord Grantham. The older man actually said very little, but what few remarks he did make were not encouraging.

"Lemon or milk, Tom?" Mary asked.

"Milk, please."

"Milk." Lord Grantham repeated in evident distaste. Tom wondered why, if it was so unspeakably wrong to take milk in one's tea, the detestable fluid was even on offer. No doubt so he could chose it and be revealed as… as what? As their former servant? For pity's sake, _every single person in this room already knew that! _

When the Countess of Grantham at last released them from the library to go and 'rest' before dinner, Tom was immensely relieved.

* * *

Well before the conclusion of his memorable first appearance as part of the 'family' at dinner upstairs at Downton Abbey, Tom had decided that the money which had enabled him to come had been provided by his worst enemy. Maybe Lord Grantham had sent it after all, in order to prove that he could reject and ignore his despised working-class son-in-law far more completely and thoroughly in his presence than he had been able to in his absence.

At dinner Lord Grantham displayed a newfound willingness to speak directly to his daughter's husband. He acted as a sort of 'translator' to make sure Tom understood that everything anyone said or did in connection with the Irishman was an insult, and that everything Tom himself did or said was wrong. Tom almost wished the older man _would _refuse to speak to him.

For some mysterious reason, and despite the fact that every person present was family, they were all completely disturbed by Tom's clothing. What was wrong with his clothes? All right, yes, obviously they weren't glad rags, but who could afford clothes like that, and where would Tom wear them if he had them? Mary and Edith helpfully suggested he buy a _second wardrobe_ and leave it here—were they insane, or was he?

Tom felt so embattled by the time Mr. Matthew and Mrs. Crawley started asking him about Ireland and politics, that he just gave the maggots that had infested his brain full sway. What's the feeling in Ireland? That we're in sight of throwing off the English yoke. Do I have a problem being ruled by your king? Yes, I do, just like you'd have a problem being ruled by the German Kaiser.

It was not his finest hour. Lord Grantham suggested that they go through with the ladies, rather than sit drinking port together in the dining room. Branson thanked God for small mercies. But he couldn't bear to face any of them in the drawing room either, so he caught Sybil and whispered that he wanted to go and say hello to everyone downstairs. Sybil nodded. She would explain his absence to the others.

So he ventured downstairs. He should have known what would happen. To be honest, he did know.

But he had still hoped.

Thank God for Anna, who had acted completely normally, and for Mrs. Hughes, who was very kind. If he'd had only Mr. Carson to deal with, Branson thought he would have gone outside and laid down on the gravel drive to wait for the new chauffeur to drive over him on the way to take old Lady Grantham home and put him out of his misery.

Tom went up to the bedroom he was to share with Sybil and undertook to assess the damage. Well, it had been an extremely awkward and uncomfortable day, but then he had known it would be, he hadn't really needed his lordship's short answers or Mr. Carson holding a serving platter at his eye level to make him see it. Upstairs, admittedly, he had lost his temper. Downstairs, he had held it, but plainly his credit was no longer good at The Sign of the Green Baize Door.

Tom checked his watch. Unless things had changed dramatically since he'd been employed here, the probability was that the Dowager, and likely everyone else, would stay in the drawing room for another half hour or more. Excellent. It would allow him time to imbibe some of the 'opiate of the people.'

Tom pulled the little rosary out of his pocket, settled himself on his knees next to the bed, and composed his mind for prayer. He crossed himself. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen." He slid the ring onto his thumb. "Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem…" By the time his devotions were finished, he was able to say of his dealings with his wife's family: "I will try again tomorrow."

* * *

The first sound Tom heard was the ring of metal on metal. Light. Tom opened his eyes. Anna Bates was opening the curtains. He smiled at her. It was good to see a friend first thing after opening your eyes. "Good morning, Anna," he greeted her softly, keeping his voice low because his wife still slept cradled in the crook of his arm.

"Good morning, sir," she responded brightly.

Tom's happy smile faded.

"Mr. Branson," Anna began to scold gently, despite which, he perked up since she had used his name, "you know I've to call you 'sir' now."

"I know," he admitted. "But it makes me feel like a stranger."

"You could never be that," she reassured him, then added pointedly, "Sir."

He laughed.

"I'll bring Lady Sybil a tray after a bit," Anna said, "but they'll expect you to go down for breakfast."

Tom thought. "They breakfast in the dining room here?"

"Yes," Anna told him, "_you _do."

"Thank you, Anna." He freed himself from his sleeping wife without waking her, and left to go wash up.

* * *

When he returned to the dressing room next to Sybil's bedroom a quarter hour later, Alfred was waiting for him. Anna must have told him Tom was up. "Good morning, Alfred," he said cheerfully.

"Good morning, sir," the taller man replied, glad the Irishman had not been too put out by the rough treatment he'd received last night from both the Crawley family and Mr. Carson. Alfred could sympathize, considering some of the treatment he'd received from them himself.

The footman cum valet turned his attention to his charge's clothes. Mr. Branson had brought exactly two suits of clothes with him: the brown suit, and a dark blue. "Will we be wearing the brown suit this morning, sir?" Alfred asked.

"We will," Tom agreed royally, "then I'll change to the blue for the dinner tonight."

Alfred blinked. He was going to go down to dinner with a bunch of lords and ladies in a blue business suit? "Very good, sir," the footman said, starting to help the smaller man into the brown suit. He had to hand it to this Mr. Branson: he was brave.

* * *

After all, if yesterday had been a little rocky, so far Tom's first full day at Downton was going swimmingly. Perhaps everything would be all right after all. Eventually, Lord Grantham would come around. Tom just needed to relax and not be so defensive about everything…

They didn't actually break him until breakfast.

* * *

Tom breezed into the dining room as though he hadn't a care in the world. "Good morning, Mr. Carson," he greeted the butler sunnily.

"Sir," Mr. Carson intoned. He handed Branson a plate, and the former chauffeur put some food on it and went to the table.

"Good morning, mi—" he remembered suddenly that Sybil had said he'd been granted permission to use a higher status mode of address: "I mean, Lord Grantham."

Lord Grantham looked up at his son-in-law for a moment, then cut his eyes to one of the chairs. Tom sat where the older man's eyes had directed. Lord Grantham went back to his newspaper without speaking.

"Any interesting news?" Tom asked. Current events had always been a reliable topic of conversation between the two men. And between Tom and Carson, who was listening from the sideboard, come to that.

Lord Grantham looked up from the newspaper to stare at his son-in-law. His eyes held the exact expression of one who has stepped in… an animal's excrement… on the street or lawn. After a number of seconds of affronted annoyance, his lordship looked briefly from side to side, as one looking for somewhere to wipe his shoe. Then he resumed reading his paper.

Tom felt the heat in his cheeks. He stared at the rim of his plate for a moment. He swallowed, even though there was currently no food in his mouth. He raised his eyes to look at the butler. Mr. Carson wore his standard 'upstairs' look of professional impassivity, but Tom, long skilled in reading the older servant's moods and expressions, saw the fine overlay of satisfaction at what he considered a well-earned rebuff.

Edith entered. "Good morning, Papa. Good morning, Tom."

The men murmured greetings as she got a plate of food. She sat down with them to eat.

"Sybil have a good night?" she asked Tom.

Lord Grantham made a sound, while Tom replied, "Apparently. She's still asleep."

"The perks of being a married woman: breakfast in bed."

"What, you don't like our company?" Tom teased.

Edith laughed. "I could forgo it."

"Hear, hear," Lord Grantham muttered.

Edith shot him a look of disapproval. "Papa—"

Lord Grantham cut her off. "There's a letter here for you."

Distracted, she slit the envelope and took out the letter to read. It was a long one.

Tom concentrated on eating and soon finished what was on his plate. He was still hungry. Should he get up and get some more? Was that acceptable? He glanced at Edith, but she was engrossed in her letter. Lord Grantham was frowning at The Times.

Tom would actually have liked some oatmeal porridge: that's a breakfast that sticks to your ribs. He had not seen any on the buffet. No doubt humble oatmeal was too plebeian to soil the sideboard of the dining room of Downton Abbey. His eyes went to the butler again. He could not ask Mr. Carson for anything, nor could he tolerate the thought of approaching the buffet again. A line of Dickens wandered into his disturbed brain: _Please, sir, I want some more. _

And look at what had happened to Oliver Twist.

Suddenly, the huge ornate room was suffocating. Tom needed to escape. He rose from his seat, 'bowed to the board' (in his case halfway between the table and the sideboard), whispered, "If you'll excuse me," and fled.

Steps followed him into the Great Hall. "Tom!" It was Lady Edith. He stopped for her. "Are you alright?" She laid her hand lightly on his arm.

"I'm fine," he lied.

She smiled comfortingly. "It'll get better. As soon as Papa gets used to things."

Tom nodded. Ingrained politeness forced him to stay until she released him, despite the fact that his flight instinct was battering him with the need to be away. "I know," he reassured his 'sister' falsely.

Lady Edith smiled and patted his arm. She turned to go back into the dining room. "Sybil's probably up by now."

Tom hoped not. He did not want to have to explain to his wife where he was going. Now, where were his hat and overcoat?


End file.
